


I Own Every Bell That Tolls Me

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [10]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Case Fic, Community: all4onebigbang, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan's and Athos' happiness has a shadow cast over it when Milady comes back to town. Tensions and stakes run high as they try to stop her plans while navigating their relationship.</p>
<p>Entry in the All For One Musketeers Big Bang challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has a playlist! You can find it [here](http://8tracks.com/robinlorin/i-own-every-bell-that-tolls-me) on 8tracks.

The buzz of the bullpen faded away as Treville closed the door to the holding cells behind him. The cells were quiet; all empty but for one occupant.

Treville’s footsteps echoed loudly in the cement-and-metal space. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted the man in the last holding cell to know that he was coming.

He stopped at the end of the row. The man behind the bars didn’t look up from his clenched hands.

The metal door of the cell clanged as Treville swung it open. He entered the cell and sat down next to d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan was silent, his elbows resting on his thighs and his gaze trained furiously on his clasped, trembling fists.

“You realize how serious this is,” Treville said finally.

D’Artagnan made no response.

“Look at me,” Treville said sharply. D’Artagnan sullenly shifted his gaze to Treville without raising his head. His eyes shone with resentment. “If any other of my officers did this, I’d have them in a tribunal in a heartbeat. I’m giving you one chance to explain yourself to me.”

D’Artagnan shifted his gaze back to his hands. "What's the point. You've already decided I’m guilty."

"No one has decided anything yet."

"Detective _Bonacieux_ didn't think so." D'Artagnan's tone made a mockery of Constance's title.

"You're one of mine, d'Artagnan. That means that your fate is up to me. I decide what happens next. Got it?"

D'Artagnan was silent.

Treville said uncomfortably, "Is this about you and Athos?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

“I warned you when you began here that any relationship nonsense was to stay separate from your jobs. If you let this affect your work, Charles--”

D’Artagnan jumped to his feet. “I said, I don’t want to talk about it!”

His shout hung in the cold air between them, echoing off the grey walls. Treville breathed deeply, willing himself to count to ten before he answered.

When he did, it was in the curt manner that his detectives knew to cower from. “Fine. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a night in holding.”

He exited the cell and locked it behind him. The keys clanked loudly. Treville could hear d’Artagnan’s breathing, hot and angry, as he watched Treville leave. He turned to the door.

The boy was soft; Treville had barely made it two steps before d’Artagnan shouted, “Wait!”

Treville paused. “Yes?”

“I -- I’m sorry.”

Treville turned around to see d’Artagnan looking shamefaced. Treville raised an eyebrow. “You’re sorry?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” D’Artagnan swallowed. “It won’t happen again.”

Treville waited another moment before nodding curtly. He pulled the keys out again and unlocked the cell door. He saw d’Artagnan’s shoulders slump from the corner of his eye.

Treville swung the door open.

“Like I said, d’Artagnan, you’re one of mine. I protect my own.” He gripped d’Artagnan’s shoulder tightly; d’Artagnan hid a wince poorly. “Don’t let me catch you at this again.”

“Yessir.”

“Good.”

Treville was at the door this time before d’Artagnan called out to him again. “Sir, my badge?”

Treville didn’t look back as he swung open the door and motioned for Detective Rochefort, who was lounging against the wall opposite the holding cell door, to come and collect his errant intern. “I didn’t say you were forgiven. One week’s probation.”

“Probation? One week?” d’Artagnan spluttered. “Sir --”

Treville turned and met his eye with a cold glare. “Take it or leave it, d’Artagnan.”

The heat in d’Artagnan’s eyes threatened to melt Treville’s icy stare. “Fine,” he spat. He pushed past Treville and ignored Rochefort in favor of striding down the hall to the bullpen.

“Detective,” said Treville. “Follow him.”

 * * * * *

**One week earlier:**

D’Artagnan held his breath and turned away as the medical technicians turned the body over. He couldn’t stand to watch as the limbs flopped around and the head lolled. The call had come in on the early morning shift: a white male in jogging clothes, found by the river. D’Artagnan was grateful that he hadn’t had time for breakfast before Rochefort had summoned d’Artagnan and Zénaide to join him.

D’Artagnan fiddled with his phone. He checked his messages. Finally, he steeled himself and turned. Rochefort and Zénaide were already crouching over the body, peering at it and poking pieces of clothing to get a better look at the fatal wound. D’Artagnan joined them, carefully keeping upwind of the body. The smell of day-old corpse was quickly swept away by the breeze off the Seine.

Now that the victim was face-up, it was easy to see the cause of death: a bullet to the middle of his forehead.

Zénaide was inspecting the victim’s torso. She pointed at a mark on the neck of the body. “This looks like it was made postmortem, right?”

Rochefort inspected the wound. It was a series of small gouges in a circular zig-zag pattern. D’Artagnan thought it looked like a pointy sun.

Rochefort cleared his throat. “You can see by the pale yellow color of the wound and the lack of large quantities of blood that this wound was made after the victim was killed.”

“So, what I just said, then,” Zénaide said under her breath.

“Is it some kind of message?” d’Artagnan said. He tilted his head. “It could be Morse code.”

“Possible,” said Rochefort, in a way that meant ‘Of course not, you poor common fool.’ He stood up and removed his plastic gloves. “The tests will determine it.”

He put his designer shades on and strode back to the squad car.

“That’s it?” said Zénaide, staring after him. “We’re not going to look around the riverbank or anything?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “Puny minds like ours can’t possibly fathom the workings of his godlike brain.”

Zénaide rolled her eyes. “He’d like to think so. I claim front seat!” She darted ahead to the car. He grumbled, but climbed into the back seat. At least he had a grate separating himself and Rochefort now, although -- sadly -- it didn’t block out Rochefort’s voice.

“One of my ancestors served in the court of Louis XIV, you know. We don’t have the papers, but there’s a mention of a Rochefort in court documents. You’ll have to go to Versailles to see it. It’s quite authentic.”

D’Artagnan slumped in the back seat of the squad car, ignoring Rochefort’s bragging and Zénaide’s bored ‘Mm-hmm’s. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on his phone screen feverishly. His eyes never stayed long on the scenery, but flickered down to check for a message every few seconds.

The screen lit up and d’Artagnan instantly slid open the incoming text.

 

From: Ninon  
What do you think of swans?

 

He sighed.

 

To: Ninon  
Why

From: Ninon  
Aesthetically, I mean.

To: Ninon  
Fine I guess

From: Ninon  
But what about swans as ice sculptures?

To: Ninon  
Idk ask Flea. It’s your two’s party after all

 

D’Artagnan exited out of his messages. Then he opened his messages. He tapped on his conversation with Lisabeth and scrolled up and down the texts.

Nothing had changed. The last text was still the same: _Going into the hearing. Will let you know._

As d’Artagnan languished in the back of a squad car, LaBarge was waiting to hear whether he would go free after a mere year in prison for killing d’Artagnan’s father.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Lisabeth had said she’d update him. But she was notoriously bad with phones; she might have forgotten. Was it worth texting her in the middle of the hearing?

He typed out a quick message before he could change his mind. _Any news?_

The answer came half an hour later, as Rochefort was pulling up to the police station.

From: Lisabeth  
Not yet: I will email you.

To: Lisabeth  
Text me when anything happens

From: Lisabeth  
I said I will/

To: Lisabeth  
Texting and emailing aren’t the same thing!

From: Lisabeth  
Don.t take that tone With me.

To: Lisabeth  
Learn how to fucking type

To: Lisabeth  
Sorry. I’m on edge.

 

“Fuck.” D’Artagnan groaned and slumped against the seat. He’d be getting a call from his oldest sister the minute she was out of the courtroom.

A rap on the car window jerked him upright. Zénaide was standing outside, gesturing for d’Artagnan to follow. D’Artagnan scrambled for the door handle and cursed again when he banged his hand. The handle wasn’t there. Of course. He was sitting in the back seat of a squad car.

Zénaide was laughing through the glass. He scowled at her until she opened the door.

“Don’t pout, bean sprout,” she said. He stormed past her, following Rochefort’s back as the detective entered the police station.

Zénaide skipped up beside him. “Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know.” D’Artagnan made to shove his hands into his pockets and remembered his uniform didn’t have any. “But we’re assigned to him all day. I don’t want to get a lecture on intern duties if we don’t follow him to the bathroom and watch him shit.”

“The man would probably tell us about how his great-great grandfather only shat gold nuggets,” Zénaide agreed. D’Artagnan snorted.

They found Rochefort in Conference Room B. He was talking to a few detectives of the same rank. Other officers were setting up the presentation system and arranging papers on the conference table.

“What’s this?” d’Artagnan asked Rochefort across the room. Rochefort looked up, annoyed at being interrupted. _He can stick it up his gold-plated ass_ , d’Artagnan thought grumpily.

“The meeting we were called back for. Weren’t you listening?”

“Of course,” sir,” said Zénaide. “You explained it to us in the car. Right between the explanation of proper door-holding etiquette and your thesis on immigration, re: how it’s ruining the economy.”

Rochefort looked at her closely, but Zénaide’s face was all earnest attentiveness. He shifted and said, “Right. Well, listen better next time, d’Artagnan.”

They waited until he had turned back to his cronies to let go. D’Artagnan choked on a laugh and shifted so Zénaide’s giggles were slightly hidden from the rest of the room.

“What a dick,” Zénaide breathed.

Captain Treville’s arrival was heralded with a loud bellow. “You lot, in here!”

He strode into the room, casting an eye over the setup. “Get that projector ready. Matin, bring some more chairs in. Make room, you lot.”

Detectives filed in and took seats around the table. D’Artagnan noticed mostly higher-level detectives; Constance -- that was to say, Head Detective Bonacieux -- took her place at Treville’s right side. A few official-looking men and women in suits stood on Treville’s other side.

D’Artagnan and Zénaide glanced at each other, unsure of their place in the meeting. D’Artagnan shrugged and motioned to Rochefort: he hadn’t kicked them out yet. Zénaide nodded to an empty bit of space. They squeezed over to it and leaned against the wall.

D’Artagnan checked his phone once more -- still no update from Lisabeth -- and turned it on silent.

Someone turned the lights off. There was a bit of cursing from Captain Treville as he thumped the projector, and then a loud expletive when the projector came on and shone in his face. His grimace was illuminated for a split second, and then he moved out of the way and the projector shone on the wall behind him.

The bottom dropped out of d’Artagnan’s stomach.

Even in the dark, he could feel the glances being thrown his way. He could hear the whispers. But he couldn’t tear his attention away from the five-by-six still of Athos’ ex-wife sneering at him from her courtroom trial.

His hand twitched toward his phone. He first instinct was to tell Athos. But he stilled his hand with effort.

Zénaide leaned close and he startled. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

D’Artagnan was saved from explaining by Captain Treville clearing his throat.

“We’ve just been notified that this woman, Anna de Breuil, alias Anne de la Fere, alias Milady, is planning a heist on the Musée de l'Histoire de France. Our neighbors at Interpol have kindly informed us a short forty-eight hours before the predicted time of the burglary. I’ve assembled this team to determine a plan of action, execute an operation, and apprehend the criminal. For the sake of expediency, she will be referred to as Milady.”

Treville cleared his throat and Constance began handing out info packets.

“Before we get started, I want to warn all personnel that what we plan here is not to be discussed elsewhere. With anyone,” he added pointedly, and d’Artagnan ignored the stares darting his way again. “This is a highly confidential, highly risky case. Those who are familiar with the criminal in question know the stakes. For those unaware…”

He clicked a remote and a text-heavy slide replaced Milady’s face on the projector.

“Six years ago, Milady was arrested and accused of involuntary manslaughter. The case was dismissed on grounds of inconsistent evidence and trespassing on a warrant.” D’Artagnan thought he could hear Treville’s teeth grinding from across the room. “I need not remind you all that all warrants and laws will be followed to the letter on this operation. We have no need of another bungled case against her.”

He clicked the remote again. A blank slide came up; with each consecutive click, a grainy photo appeared. They were all variations on a common theme: Milady, with her hair different in each picture, disguised in large sunglasses or a delivery uniform or ducking behind a window.

Treville continued. “At the time of the trial, Interpol--”

One of the women in the suits interrupted. “If I may, Captain?”

Treville paused. “Of course. May I introduce Agent Owusu of Interpol.” There was an awkward smattering of applause.

Agent Owusu stepped forward. “As Captain Treville said, at the time of Anne de la Fere’s trial, our organization had a file on a woman who was guilty of high-stakes white collar crimes. Mostly confidence schemes, although there were some suspicious deaths that followed her during her time in Eastern Europe. We had no other information on her other than the fact that she was fleecing her marks out of millions, and that she called herself Milady.

“The media coverage of her trial in Paris brought her to our attention. We finally had a person to connect to the crimes. Unfortunately, once the case was dismissed, Milady vanished from Paris.”

She nodded to Treville, who clicked the remote. A large photo of a thin man with a pointed, lightly colored beard and piercing eyes filled the screen. D’Artagnan shivered instinctively.

“You may have heard in the news lately that crime boss Armand Richelieu, code name The Cardinal, is scheduled for release from prison in a month. We have noticed an uptick in what we call higher-tier criminal activity. Big-stakes cons and heists. We believe that a certain class of criminal is trying to prove themselves to The Cardinal in order to gain his patronage once he is released.”

“I think I can take it from here, Agent,” said Treville. Agent Owusu graciously ceded the floor.

Treville clicked the remote again. “We believe that Milady is planning to take this music box,” he gestured to the ornate, jewel-encrusted box displayed, “from the Musée de l'Histoire. It belonged to King Louis XIII. It’s estimated at 2.5 billion Euro. Interpol has provided us with a timeline. It’s included in your packets.”

Treville set his shoulders and stared at the assembled detectives. His determined stare was illuminated by a sliver of light from the projector, like a scar across his face. D’Artagnan was struck by how weary he looked.

“I will not accept anything less than full dedication and cooperation on this operation,” Treville said. “All other cases are secondary to this operation. I expect extreme discretion from all of you. That includes media silence. Absolutely no communication with the press. All inquiries should go directly to me.”

Constance cleared her throat. Captain Treville nodded. “As for the circumstances of our last case against Milady, I hope I speak the truth when I say that the individuals connected to that case, however slightly, will not be harassed by our officers.”

Now d’Artagnan was intensely aware of the collective effort of the officers in the room to _not_ look at him. He tried not to scowl.

He wondered how many officers would know the entire story by the end of the day. Police officers were terrible gossips.

So much for that discretion Treville wanted.

“Alright,” said Treville. “Matin, turn on the lights. Let’s get into the details. Everyone get comfortable.”

* * * * *

“What?” Porthos yelled over the wind. “Hire the Canadian?”

“Avoid the median!” Athos grabbed for the steering wheel and jerked it toward him.

“Sorry!” Porthos leaned further out the window, one arm groping around on the roof of the car and the other barely on the wheel. Athos gripped the steering wheel tighter.

Porthos plopped back into his seat. “Got it!”

Athos glanced at the styrofoam cup in Porthos’ hand. “Don’t spill that,” he warned. “This is a new rental and I don’t want holes in the leather.”

“You’d think Starbucks would take this off the menu after it poisoned three people.”

“To be fair, I don’t think drain cleaner was part of the original recipe.” Athos’s phone buzzed and he fished it out of his jacket. That would be Aramis with an update on their lab results.

“Athos,” he answered. 

“What’s your comment on Milady’s return to Paris?”

The stranger's accusatory words barreled down the phone line and struck Athos as if they were physical blows. He reeled.

“Athos. Athos!”

Porthos was calling his name. Athos gasped and realized that he had been holding his breath.

“She’s back,” he croaked.

Porthos cursed and pulled the car over.

“We’ll lose them,” Athos said on autopilot. “Keep driving.”

“Not when you look like that. Shit, look at me.” Porthos carefully put the styrofoam cup in the cup holder and took hold of Athos’ chin. He examined Athos’ face, and Athos let him, feeling loose and disconnected. “You’re looking peaky. Stay there.”

Athos sat in a daze as Porthos went around to the boot. He brought back an energy bar and a bottle of water. Athos obediently ate and drank some of each.

“Did you know about this?” he asked.

“Know about what?”

“Milady. Back in town.”

“What are you saying? Of course I didn’t know.”

Athos shook his head. “Of course. I apologize.”

“No need.” Porthos sat back in his seat. “Shit. She’s really back?”

The phone was lying on the floor of the car. Athos ponderously bent down and picked it up. It was still on. He ended the call.

He held up the phone. “Some reporter seems to think so.”

“How’d they know?”

Athos stared at his phone. “Treville,” he said. Everything snapped back into clarity. If Anne -- if Milady was back, she’d be back for a reason. The police department would take an interest. They’d gossip, and the reporters would grab hold of it.

“Treville’s got to know something,” he said.

Porthos drove to the police station in record time. Athos left him by the car, calling Aramis for their lab update, and made a beeline to Captain Treville’s office. The captain wasn’t within. Athos searched the bullpen without luck.

Constance wasn’t at her desk, either. He was about to accost an unlucky officer when Treville emerged from a conference room.

He didn’t see Athos, instead closing the door behind him and rubbing at his eyes.

“Treville,” Athos called, biting off the words. Heads turned as he strode toward the captain. “I must congratulate your staff. It seems they’ve mastered a gossip network that rivals the speed of light.”

Treville had dropped his hand from his face upon hearing Athos. Now he stared at Athos in slight confusion and, possibly, guilt.

Athos continued, “I’d appreciate a little more warning next time my homicidal ex-wife come to town, before reporters take me by surprise.”

Treville looked like he wanted to rub his eyes again. One of them twitched. “Why don’t we take this to my office?” he said.

Athos glared at him for a long moment, then turned on his heel and led the way. Whispers sprung up as he passed detectives at their desks.

Treville closed the door and motioned for Athos to take a seat. “Obviously my order of media silence didn’t go through,” he said. “For that, I apologize.”

Athos remained standing. “Why wasn’t I immediately informed of An--of her return?”

Treville took his time answering. He made himself comfortable behind his desk and smoothed his mustache. “I was notified of her return late last night.”

“Yet I didn’t receive a call.” When Treville was still silent, Athos leaned toward him, knuckling the desk. “You know that I would have taken that call at any time of day or night. Regardless of inconvenience. Dammit, Treville! Don’t I deserve this slightest consideration?”

Treville met Athos’ eyes. “I decided to keep you off the case because I thought you would have an adverse reaction to Milady returning to Paris. It’s good to know my instincts are still correct.”

Athos felt his lips draw back in a snarl. “So you decide to keep me in the dark.”

“I planned to call you in later today.”

“Not good enough.”

Treville sighed. “D’Artagnan’s on the task force.”

Athos stilled. His anger fizzled away, leaving a cold hollow in his chest. “What?”

Treville smoothed his mustache again, a telltale uneasy gesture. “He’s a good intern, Athos. He’s got the makings of an officer, probably a first-line detective. He’s got a few more months of being an intern before he can apply for officer status. If he has work on a case like this under his belt, he’s a shoo-in.”

“So you make this decision without consulting me.”

“You’re his boyfriend, not his boss,” Treville said sharply, sitting forward in his chair, straining for those extra inches without standing defensively. “I’m responsible for his career. I make decisions that benefit his promotion path.” He pointed at Athos. “And you pin that on me, not him.”

“I’m not going to blame him for that,” said Athos, offended.

“Good.”

“I’m more inclined to blame his boss.”

Treville smiled humorlessly. “Don’t forget, I’m your boss, too.”

“I seem to remember quitting.”

“Funny. I’ve got a Freelance Contractor Agreement that says different.”

“Don’t mistake our willingness to work with the department that failed me with eagerness,” Athos said, low.

* * * * *

Jeanette, the reception clerk, smirked at d’Artagnan when he emerged from the conference room.

“Your boyfriend’s in a snit,” she said airily.

Rochefort pushed past d’Artagnan, knocking his shoulder. “Oh, how is that any different from normal?”

D’Artagnan ignored Rochefort, with effort. “What d’you mean?” he asked Jeanette.

“He stormed in here a few minutes ago and shouted at the captain in front of everyone. They’re in his office now.” Jeanette winked at Zénaide, who was coming out of the conference room, and swanned off to the reception desk.

For the second time that day, d’Artagnan’s stomach made an unpleasant roll. Athos must have heard about Milady. D’Artagnan hadn’t texted him after all; had that been the right thing to do?

He looked around the bullpen and found an unusual air of anticipation. Detectives snuck glances at Captain Treville’s closed office door. The station seemed to be holding its collective breath, waiting for a sign of imminent destruction from the captain’s office.

“Do you think she likes me?” Zénaide asked. D’Artagnan looked at her and saw Zénaide watching Jeanette at her desk. “She winks at me, but she flirts with everyone, I can’t tell if it’s serious or not.”

“Go for it?” d’Artagnan suggested weakly. He turned back to Captain Treville’s office. No raised voices, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything with Athos.

“C’mon, be my wingman.” Zénaide plucked at d’Artagnan’s sleeve until he followed her to reception. Zénaide leaned on the desk, showing off her toned arms and batting her dark eyelashes, while d’Artagnan played worst wingman in the history of wingmen, and ignored them completely.

The door to Captain Treville’s office banged open and Athos stormed out. D’Artagnan straightened. Everyone who had been watching the door suddenly found very important work to do elsewhere. The bullpen fluttered into activity again.

Athos strode through the chaos, heading for the door and, incidentally, d’Artagnan. He seemed intent on leaving, but d’Artagnan took a step to block his path.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

Athos’ eyes cut at him, and d’Artagnan winced. “Of course you aren’t,” he said hastily. “Is there anything I can do?”

Athos looked around and, seeing Jeanette and Zénaide pretending not to watch, ducked closer to d’Artagnan. “Keep me updated.”

D’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t just tell anyone about the operation.”

“I’m not anyone. This case directly affects me. I should be in on it.” Athos was still riding the wave of anger that had carried him out of Captain Treville’s office.

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “I’ll talk to Captain Treville, okay?”

Athos sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t put you in that position--”

“No, it’s okay,” d’Artagnan hastened to reassure him. He put his fingers to Athos’ elbow, holding him up, but keeping in mind Athos’ aversion to public displays of affection. Athos seemed grateful for the support; he swayed slightly into d’Artagnan’s touch.

After a moment, Athos opened his eyes and straightened. “Fine,” he said. “Just…”

“I’ll come over after work,” d’Artagnan promised.

Athos smiled, lightning-fast and just as bright, and left.

* * * * *

Athos tried to listen to d’Artagnan’s story, but he couldn’t stay still. He paced the length of the sitting room -- d'Artagnan had banned him from the kitchen -- and came again and again to the wide window that looked out over the streets of Paris.

Milady was out there, somewhere on those streets. For years her specter had shivered through him, and now he could feel her, coming closer, haunting him again despite d’Artagnan’s warm presence that had kept the ghosts away for so long.

D’Artagnan emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “So Rochefort asked why Zénaide was wearing a frog on her head, and Zénaide said…”

D'Artagnan trailed off. Athos turned from the window and saw d'Artagnan's face fall.

“What did Zénaide say?” he asked quickly.

“No, you weren’t listening.”

“I’ll listen now.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “It’s fine, Athos. I know you’ve got other things on your mind.”

Athos stepped away from the window. “I’m sorry.”

D’Artagnan smiled gamely. “I should be sorry. I’m going on about my coworkers and you’ve got bigger things to worry about. Do you want to… talk about it?”

Athos swallowed.

The space between them seemed enormous. The cherry wood furniture and tasteful Persian rug had turned to a yawning chasm. How could he cross it and reach d’Artagnan? How could he ever fully say what Milady had meant to him -- the good and all the terrible?

He opened his mouth to speak.

D'Artagnan sniffed the air. “Oh, shit!” He dashed back into the kitchen. There was a clatter and a yell. “The chicken’s burning!”

When Athos reached the kitchen, d'Artagnan was taking the burned chicken out of the oven, sans oven mitts. He dropped the cooking platter on the counter and hissed. “It’s that goddamn oven. Athos, open the window.”

Athos obeyed and tried to usher some of the smoke into the outside air. D’Artagnan was keeping up a running commentary about the oven’s obvious deficiencies, the oven’s mother, and promises of the oven’s physical state after d’Artagnan had exacted his revenge.

“It can’t be the oven,” said Athos. “It’s top of the line.”

“Exactly,” said d’Artagnan, gesturing furiously at the chicken as if displaying evidence in court. “I knew how to work your old oven because it had character. It had centuries of tradition behind it. Then you had to go and set it on fire--”

“It set itself on fire-”

“And overpaid for this high-tech burninator.”

“I took care of a problem. I don’t see why it’s my fault.”

“You automatically bought the most expensive thing you don't know how to use? That’s not how money works, Athos.”

Athos clenched and unclenched his hands uselessly. “I thought you’d like it.”

D’Artagnan visibly deflated. “I do. I like the thought very much. I just have to learn how to use it. Look, I’ll order out, okay? How about Thai?” He looked at Athos imploringly, the unspoken apology hanging between them.

 _Aren’t we a pair_ , thought Athos.

“Greek sounds good,” he said.

He poked at the chicken while d’Artagnan called the Thai restaurant down the street. He tried a sliver of the breast meat, paused, and discreetly spit it out into the trash. Maybe d’Artagnan was right about the “burninator.”

D’Artagnan hung up the phone and sighed. “We may as well go relax while we wait.” The worry lines on his face smoothed out as he fluttered his eyelashes. “Help untie my apron?”

Athos smiled and turned d’Artagnan around. He untied the knot in swift, precise movements. Athos lifted the apron over d'Artagnan's head, taking the opportunity to place a kiss behind d’Artagnan’s ear.

Athos laid the apron on the counter with one hand and wrapped his other around d’Artagnan’s waist. D’Artagnan leaned back into his touch, making a small noise of approval. Then he yelped as Athos pushed him out of the kitchen.

“Alright, I can take a hint,” he laughed as Athos maneuvered him onto the couch. He took in Athos’ position as he sat down -- leaving a full gap between them -- and his smile dimmed. “Are -- I won’t say ‘Are you okay’ again, but is there anything I can do?”

Athos laid his hand in the space between them. D’Artagnan was quick to hold onto it.

“You’ve already done it by asking me if I wanted to talk about it.”

D’Artagnan squeezed his hand. “And, do you?”

Athos hesitated. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. “I’ve been over every detail with myself a thousand times. After I found out that she was a con woman, I dissected every moment we had together. I couldn’t tell if her laughter was genuine on this day, or if she really had a business trip this other day. I couldn’t--”

Athos felt a block in his throat and had to swallow. “The worst is wondering about the bad times. Wondering if she only got cross and tried to hold me at arms’ length because I was getting close to the truth. Or if… If she really did love me at first, but I wasn’t good enough for her. Wondering if she got tired of me.”

His voice was rasping now, but he had to get this out. “If she’s caught, I’ll finally get answers. If I could only be on the operation that catches her, I could ask her…”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew that d’Artagnan heard the expectation in Athos’ pause. He knew that d’Artagnan was hesitating over the words: _'I’ll tell you everything, Athos. I’ll talk to Treville for you.'_

D’Artagnan squeezed his hand again. “I swear, we’ll get her, Athos.”

Athos opened his eyes. He looked at d’Artagnan; at his concerned face; at the guilt in his eyes. He was lit by the dwindling light of the window behind him, where the ghost of his past haunted the streets of the darkening city.

"Yes," said Athos dully. "I suppose that's the only thing that matters."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every couple hits a rocky period in their relationship at some point. Of course, not every couple is chasing justice for two different murders at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes art from the amazing [fearlessstateofmind](http://fearlessstateofmind.tumblr.com/)! Go show him some love on their tumblr!

The house was small, on the edge of the eighth arrondissement, and exceedingly tidy. The letterbox had the name ‘Forgeron’ stenciled neatly onto it. Reprints of oil paintings hung on the walls in gold frames. Each bookshelf was organized by subject, and alphabetized. The cupboards were empty but for a few pounds of expensive coffee.

“Who was this guy?” d’Artagnan wondered out loud, looking around. “He looks way boring for a guy who ended up murdered by the river with a weird cipher on his neck.”

“Forgeron worked at some security firm,” said Zénaide. “Didn’t you read the file?” She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves.

“I was getting around to it,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “I got distracted.”

“Sir, shouldn’t we be at the victim’s workplace?” Zénaide asked Rochefort.

Rochefort was leaning against a wall -- against protocol, d’Artagnan noticed. He looked up from his cell phone and frowned at Zénaide. “Don’t you remember the first rule of suspects?”

“A spouse or significant other is the perpetrator eighty-five percent of the time,” d’Artagnan recited.

Rochefort’s strange, pale eyes fixed on d’Artagnan. “Correct,” he said. “Thus, our reasoning for being here. “Sweep Forgeron’s bedroom for signs of a significant other. Once you’re finished I’ll show you how to dust for fingerprints.”

“We learned that months ago,” d’Artagnan said. Zénaide nodded.

“Then you can do it now,” said Rochefort, and he turned away to look at his cell phone, effectively dismissing them.

Zénaide hefted the box of evidence bags and fingerprinting equipment. “Shall we?”

“If our lordship commands.” D’Artagnan followed her to the bedroom. “I doubt we’ll find anything. This place is practically bare.” But he snapped on a set of gloves too, and began flipping through the neat stack of books on the late Forgeron’s bedside table.

“So,” he said, “how’s it going with Jeanette?”

Zénaide peered behind a bookshelf. “I think I’ve got her figured out. She likes to flirt in front of other people. But get her alone, and she’s shy as heck. It’s cute.”

D’Artagnan paused in feeling under the mattress and turned to raise an eyebrow at Zénaide. “And how do you know what she’s like when you’re alone?”

Zénaide grinned. “All I’m saying is, maybe don’t go into the supply closet by the reception desk until the cleaning crew makes their rounds.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “Gross!”

Zénaide tossed a plastic glove at him. “Oh, like you’ve never done it at work.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Really? Even when you’re dating a guy whose work uniform is ninety percent leather?”

At the mention of Athos, d’Artagnan’s smile dimmed. He made himself busy putting the books back into their original pile. “Uh, no. I’ve never been to the Musketeers Agency. Athos likes to keep our work separate from our personal lives. Or I guess, he used to.”

Zénaide’s brows knit. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”

D’Artagnan scoffed. “No.”

Zenaide left the bookshelf alone and sat back on her heels. “But…”

D’Artagnan went to run his hand through his hair and remembered the gloves. He rubbed his palms together nervously, feeling the plastic wrinkle. “But. He’s just -- I mean, I know it’s hard for him, but -- he just keeps asking me about the case!” he burst out.

“The Milady case? I heard how it was his, uh…”

D’Artagnan waved his hand. “His ex-wife. And now he’s totally on edge and I get it, but he keeps asking me about what’s going on and it sucks because Treville asked us not to say anything to anyone, so I can’t tell him. And I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or Treville, or…”

“Or Milady?” Zénaide suggested.

“Yeah, obviously. But, I mean, if my brother’s killer was hanging around I’d want to know what she was doing.” D’Artagnan sat on the bed, remembered where he was, and jumped back up.

“Sounds like a Musketeer,” said Rochefort from the doorway. “Vigilante madmen, all of them.”

“Athos isn’t like that!”

“I’m sure,” said Rochefort. The sneer was implied rather than seen.

“Athos isn’t a vigilante. He doesn’t lose his cool. And what’s more, Treville should have put him on the case. He knows Milady better than anyone.”

“I’m sure you’d like to get back to the precinct so you can beg Captain Treville to let your boyfriend onto the elite task force,” said Rochefort coldly. “Hurry up and start on the fingerprinting, interns. If you can remember how.” He turned back to the kitchen.

D’Artagnan gritted his teeth and deliberately turned his back on the space where Rochefort had been.

Zénaide whistled. “Remind me to ask Detective Moeller if she’s got an ride-along spot open.”

* * * * *

Porthos had known Athos for years. He’d been there by Athos’ side through hell and back, including that dinosaur case two years ago. He knew how Athos acted when he was ticked off, when he was annoyed, when he was secretly amused, and (only since recently, and with no thanks to d’Artagnan) when he was horny.

So Porthos felt justified in exchanging a glance with Aramis when Athos came into the office and emptied a bag of cheap phones onto his desk. The way Athos was acting now was definitely not in Porthos’ book.

Judging by the look Aramis sent back at him, it wasn’t in Aramis’ either.

“Take one,” Athos instructed them both.

Aramis cautiously rose from his desk. “And these are…?”

“Burner phones,” said Athos. “Treville still isn’t letting me on the case.”

“And that explains the phones, how?” asked Porthos, not making a move to take one.

“If he isn’t going to let us in on this, we’ll need to have our own plan.” Athos set about tearing the plastic off the packages with a single-minded ferocity.

“Athos,” said Aramis, “you know we’re with you one hundred percent. All the way. But this…” He gestured at the phones. “Isn’t this a little paranoid?”

Athos spat out a piece of plastic. “You don’t know how slippery she is.”

“I did hear about the court case,” Aramis said mildly.

“So you know what I’m talking about. She had contacts in all the levels of the court system. I wouldn’t surprised if she knows people who could give her our phone records right now.” Athos handed one phone each to Aramis and Porthos. “Use these from now on.”

“For…?” Porthos prompted.

“Anything related to her. I’m going back to the precinct today to try to garner some more information. If I discover anything, I will call you on these. Don’t relay any information about her on your personal phones.” He held their gazes.

Porthos nodded. “It’s a good idea, Athos. Just, be careful, yeah?” He laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder and squeezed.

Aramis nodded and clapped Athos on the other arm. “Look out for our own,” he said.

Athos’s mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. “I will,” he said.

Porthos and Aramis let go of him. Athos nodded to them and headed for the door.

“Hey, Athos,” Porthos called after him. “There were only three phones. Is there one for d’Artagnan?”

Athos stopped with his hand on the door. “He doesn’t need one,” he said.

“Does he already have one?”

“No.” Athos seemed to struggle with something. “He doesn’t need to be involved with this. He’s already working with Treville.”

Porthos frowned. “Don’t you think he should be in the loop?”

“He’s chosen his side,” said Athos. “I’ll respect that decision.”

He left. The bell on the door rung cheerfully after he was gone.

* * * * *

Captain Treville took a drink of water and flipped a page. The other detectives in the room flipped the pages of their own info packets.

Captain Treville cleared his throat. “Layout. The music box is located in the Musée de l’Histoire, at the Hôtel de Soubise, at 60 Rue de Francs Bourgeois in the third arrondissement.”

Constance helpfully clicked the remote for the projector, and an overhead view of the Hôtel appeared on the screen behind Captain Treville.

“As you can see, the museum is surrounded closely by other buildings. On one end, another museum. On all other sides, residential apartments, cafés, public buildings. Our second priority, after apprehending the suspect, is to ensure that no police activity exceeds the boundaries of the museum.”

Captain Treville cleared his throat again. “You should be looking at a blueprint in the Hôtel in your packets. The music box is located in the Salon. Logistically--” He coughed and reached for his water glass. “Why don’t I turn this over to Monsieur Canard.”

A small man in tweed, who had been fidgeting in the seat to the right of Captain Treville’s chair, jerked upright.

“Er, yes,” he said. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Logistically, as Captain Treville was saying…”

Constance leaned over and whispered something in the man’s ear.

“Oh! Yes,” he said. “I’m, er, Herb Canard, Assistant Director of Serrure Sucerité.” Canard was probably wishing the Director were here instead; he looked as though he had never done any public speaking in his life.

Canard adjusted his tie with trembling fingers. “The Musée de l’Histoire de la France is one of our clients. Er, we expect the criminal to gain access to the Salon room via the roof. The Salon has a glass roof, you see. Interpol informs us that this, er, Milady’s usual method is to rappel down from the ceiling, which assists in avoiding the sensors.” He tapped the info packet in front of him. “We have provided a list of possible spots at which Milady could, er, mount the roof, as it were.”

“And if you flip to that page --" Captain Treville interrupted himself. "Thank you, Assistant Director Canard. If you all flip to the list, you’ll see--”

The meeting was suddenly interrupted when the door swung open. Treville turned toward the door and began to bark, “We aren’t to be disturbed -- Athos.”

D’Artagnan nearly jumped up out of his seat. Athos was in the doorway, looking so out of sorts that for a second of sheer panic, d’Artagnan thought that he was drunk.

But it was just an illusion. The untucked shirt and five o’clock shadow on his usually impeccable frame, and the fire burning in his normally calm eyes, transformed him into a near stranger.

“I request your attention on a matter of importance,” Athos bit out. He cast his gaze over the projected blueprint. “One you seem to be already acquainted with.”

Captain Treville stood. “Bonacieux, keep the meeting going,” he said. “Athos, my office. Now.”

There was silence after the door closed behind him. D’Artagnan stared at the door, wishing he could have joined them. Wishing that his duty didn’t keep him apart from Athos when all he wanted to do was to stand by his side.

“Alright,” said Constance. “If you’ll all look at the list, please, you’ll see the possible entry points…”

* * * * *

* * * * *

When the meeting ended half an hour later, Athos was gone.

D’Artagnan had barely stepped out of the conference room before Captain Treville called him, Rochefort and Zénaide to his office. Officers who had seen Athos in the building earlier cast speculative looks at d’Artagnan. He swallowed and tried to ignore the heat rising in his face.

Once they were seated before him, Captain Treville cut straight to the point. “I’ve given the Forgeron case to the Musketeers Agency.”

“What?” Rochefort and d’Artagnan said simultaneously.

“But that’s our case--” d’Artagnan protested.

“I don’t want Musketeers scrounging about in this matter--” Rochefort said.

“Enough,” said Captain Treville, raising his voice. “I don’t want to hear it. Certain members of the agency need a case to keep them busy, and you already have the Milady operation to worry about. End of discussion. I expect you to transfer all relevant files to the Agency.”

D’Artagnan slumped in his seat. The partnership the Agency had with the police department was one thing; poaching a half-solved case was another. And this from d’Artagnan’s boyfriend, no less.

Captain Treville consulted a paper on his desk: his list of cases assigned to each detective. Even after so many years on the force, Captain Treville still wrote it by hand every week, crossing out closed cases and adding new ones in his spindly cursive.

“You’re working on the other case, Rochefort. The drugs that were taken from the evidence lockers. That’s a serious matter, Detective, and I expect a report on that by the end of the week.”

“We agreed that’s a long-term case, sir,” Rochefort said stiffly. “It will take months of work.”

“And I’ve already given you a month.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rochefort. He stood and nodded to the captain. “I’ll start immediately.” He shoved the door open and left.

Zénaide and d’Artagnan nodded hastily to Captain Treville and scrambled to follow Rochefort. They found him at his desk, holding the Forgeron case file.

“I guess we should send those to the Agency,” Zénaide said casually. She didn’t flinch when Rochefort pinned her with a glare. D’Artagnan made a mental note to buy her a drink sometime.

When they asked Jeanette to send the file to the Musketeers Agency, she pointed them in the direction of the morgue. Zénaide stayed behind to thank her -- d’Artagnan made a gagging gesture and she responded with a two fingers and a tongue -- and d’Artagnan and Rochefort continued to the morgue. Rochefort still clutched the file in his hand, unwilling to relinquish it.

They found Athos bending over the body of their victim. He had pulled the sheet down to Forgeron’s chest and was peering at the post-mortem mark on Forgeron’s neck.

“De la Fere,” said Rochefort shortly. He stopped short of the autopsy table, looking at Athos as if Athos, not Forgeron, were the decaying corpse.

Athos straightened. “Rochefort.” His eyes flickered to d’Artagnan, but went back to Rochefort without a greeting. “Was this mark cleaned since the body was discovered?”

“No.”

“It was made post-mortem?”

“I hadn’t looked at the test results yet,” Rochefort bit out, “but I believed so, yes. Since you’re the lead on this case now, you can figure it out.”

Athos raised a cocky eyebrow. D’Artagnan felt the familiar, and at the present completely inappropriate, urge to pull Athos into an empty room and have his way with him.

“No need,” said Athos. “I know who did this. The only question I have is why.”

D’Artagnan’s jaw dropped. “You know who the killer is?”

Rochefort scoffed. “Even the great Musketeers aren’t magicians. What’s your proof?”

Athos pointed to the mark on Forgeron’s neck. “This is a flower. Specifically, a forget-me-not. It’s a mark I know well. My wife used to draw this as her signature on her… notes to me.” Athos’ jaw tightened. “Now she’s using it as a different signature, of a sort.”

D’Artagnan felt an unpleasant jolt when he realized that Athos hadn’t said “ex-wife.” A cold wave of anxiety washed over him.

“It doesn’t look very much like a forget-me-not to me,” he said weakly.

Athos’ glance flicked to him, and away. D’Artagnan had never felt smaller.

Athos held his hand out to Rochefort. “I believe you have something that belongs to me?”

Rochefort thrust the case file at Athos. “Do let me know if you pull any rabbits out of it.” He stepped back and folded his arms.

D’Artagnan looked nervously between him and Athos, who had already opened the file. He scanned Forgeron’s information while d’Artagnan and Rochefort waited -- one breathless with nerves, and the other in silent scorn.

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak twice, but in the end he decided to keep quiet. His patience was paid off when Athos made a noise of triumph. D’Artagnan leaned forward.

“Forgeron was the director of Serrure Sucerité.” Athos jabbed a finger at the line in the file. “Isn’t that the name of the security force for the Musée de l’Hist--” He broke off.

D’Artagnan groaned. “Athos, you didn’t.” Athos’s hand twitched tellingly toward his jacket. D’Artagnan reached into Athos' breast pocket and unfurled the hidden handout that Athos had snatched from the conference room. “The captain is keeping you off the case for a reason.”

“A poor one.”

“But he’s the boss. Athos, you could lose your commission if you keep sneaking around like this.”

“On the contrary. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that I solved this case and made progress on the operation within five minutes.” He took the packet back from d’Artagnan, so delicately that their hands didn’t brush. As if he was taking it from a stranger.

D’Artagnan flushed. “We would’ve connected it. We just hadn’t looked at his work history yet.”

“Look no further.” Athos slid the body back into the freezer. “The case is over.”

He strode out of the room. D’Artagnan stared after him, jaw working, trying to find the words to call him back.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Treville’s face was lined with all the years he’d seen and all the sleepless nights he’d put in. At the moment, Athos couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for adding one more line.

“This isn’t her M.O., Treville,” he repeated. “She’s not a thief; she’s a con artist. No matter how many time Interpol says she rappelled down ceilings, it’s not who she is. She’s a monster who creates lies to entrap innocent people.” His voice tightened at the end.

Treville’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re only proving to me that you’re too attached to the subject to be involved.”

Athos gestured at the Forgeron case file lying open on Treville’s desk. “I give you a means and motive and you still insist on shutting me out? The only thing I’m proving is that I’m the only person with the exact information that you need.”

Treville stood up. “I will not negotiate this with you further. You’re too unstable to join my team.”

 _Unstable_. Athos felt the word rattle around his skull. That’s what he had heard in his last weeks on the force. That’s what he’d heard from the media while Anne’s trial had been in the news ever day.

And now it came from a man whom he considered, if not a friend, then an ally.

Treville escorted Athos to the door. “I appreciate the work you’ve done. But you’re still not in on the operation.”

The office door shut behind Athos.

He made his way out of the precinct in a haze. He had to stop outside the doors and breathe. It hadn’t snowed yet, but the snap of winter was in the air. The end of shift was approaching; the sun had already set and the streets of Paris were blue and crisp under the dark sky.

There was no point in going back to the agency office. He took the car back to his apartment with no casualties, although he almost swiped a Smart Car. He parked in front of his building and rested his head against the steering wheel for a long minute.

Finally, he made himself leave the car. He dredged up the energy to slowly climb the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

He stopped short when he heard Porthos’ voice coming from above him in the stairwell. He peered up at the next flight and saw a figure sitting in front of Athos’ door.

D’Artagnan had his phone in one hand and was cradling his head in the other. He looked like a modern Atlas, with all the weary weight of the world bowing his head and shoulders. A bag of takeaway food sat next to him, the plastic bag foggy. He had evidently been sitting there a while.

D’Artagnan said to the phone, apparently on speaker, “I’ve just never seen him like this. It scares me.” His voice cracked. He didn’t bother clearing his throat, as if the lump of tears gathered there had returned too many times in this conversation for him to try banishing it again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Porthos’ voice issued from the phone. “Listen, d’Artagnan… you’re young. You can snap back from this better than Athos will.”

“Snap back? Snap back from what? A breakup? We’re not over.”

“That isn’t what I meant, I…”

“You what? You just thought I’d give up on him? Well, I’m not. I’m going to do whatever it takes to make this okay.”

“No, of course not.” Porthos’ voice was soothing. “I only meant that he’s had more time to worry about all this stuff. He’s felt guilty about his brother dying for years. Milady coming back is just bringing all that up again.”

D’Artagnan took a measured breath. “So you think that I have to wait until she’s arrested?”

Porthos hesitated. “It might be a bit after that.”

D’Artagnan ground the heel of his hand into his eye. “Okay.” He repeated it, softer. “Okay. I can wait.”

“Yeah.” Athos thought he heard a measure of doubt in Porthos’ voice. But Porthos only said, “Keep your chin up, alright?”

“Alright.”

D’Artagnan ended the call and set his phone down. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Alright,” he muttered again, and sat up straight.

He caught sight of Athos, below him on the lower landing, and froze. “Athos!” He scrambled to his feet. “I, uh, I brought food.” He gestured to the bag of takeaway. “And a movie. I thought that we could try to have a quiet evening, without any shop talk or, you know…”

He trailed off as Athos stopped at the stair below him.

“You did all this?” Athos asked.

“Well, yeah.” D’Artagnan scuffed his boot. "You’ve been there for me. It's my turn now."

“After the way I treated you today. You still did this.”

D’Artagnan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “It was shitty,” he said. He laughed a little, with the sheen of tears in his eyes. “I’ll say that. But I get why you were being shitty.”

“You understand,” Athos said desperately, his hands moving to pull d’Artagnan in without Athos’ permission. “You understand that it was in front of Rochefort, and Treville is keeping me off the case, and I can’t stand…”

Athos had no words for it. He couldn’t explain the tightness of his ribcage whenever he thought of Anne; the claustrophobia that clouded his mind, like the world had narrowed down to she and him and she was slowly stalking him, and he could see her coming but was frozen, unable to move or run…

D’Artagnan drew him in, letting Athos bury his face in d’Artagnan’s chest; taking his weight when Athos sagged. They stood there until the takeaway was surely cold and the stairway was dark, the twilight sky turned night.

Finally, Athos lifted his head. D’Artagnan slowly dropped his arms.

“So,” said d’Artagnan, tilting his head toward Athos’ apartment, “you wanna come in?”

Athos smiled. “Monsieur, how could I refuse such an offer?”

* * * * *

They reheated the food in the oven and settled in front of the TV. D’Artagnan suggested Battlestar Galactica. Athos pointed out that they’d have to hook up Netflix, and suggested Star Trek as a counteroffer. D’Artagnan insisted that there was a limit on the number of times a person could watch a Star Trek DVD before the disc wore out.

By this point they were comfortably settled into a tangle of limbs and precariously balanced plates. The TV stayed off.

D’Artagnan picked at Athos’ plate after cleaning his own.

“You could get more for yourself,” Athos pointed out. He fended off d’Artagnan’s fork.

“But then I’d have to get up.”

“Mm. True.” Athos allowed d’Artagnan’s fork to slip past his defense and snag a shrimp.

D’Artagnan sighed happily and snuggled into Athos’ side. He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He felt Athos take the plate from his hand and stretch to put it on the floor. “Thought you hated leaving a mess,” he murmured, without opening his eyes.

Athos kissed the top of d’Artagnan’s head. “Just this once, I’ll make an exception.”

Then Athos relaxed back onto the sofa as well. D’Artagnan felt his muscles loosen, one by one, until d’Artagnan could believe he was more pillow than person.

“Remind me to get you a burner phone,” he heard Athos say.

“Mm? Why?”

Athos’ hand smoothed over his hair. “Oh, for the… Milady.”

“M’kay.”

He drifted in a haze of contentment, aware that he was sinking into sleep but equally aware of Athos pressed against him and the texture of the couch fabric and the soft breeze from the ceiling fan.

In a blare of electric guitar, “Killer Queen” split the silence. D’Artagnan shot up, scrabbling for his phone on instinct. Athos rocketed up, nearly knocking his head against d’Artagnan’s.

“God, you couldn’t have turned that off?” he groaned.

“I forgot,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s Aurelia. I have to answer.”

Athos held his head as if the ringtone pained him. “Can’t we focus on one murderer at a time?”

D’Artagnan stilled. He stared at Athos and saw the realization of what he’d said show on his face.

D’Artagnan pressed the “decline” button and his phone went silent.

“D’Artagnan, I’m sor-- I’m so sorry. That isn’t what I meant.”

“No,” said d’Artagnan, keeping his tone casual. “Your problems trump mine. I get it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?” D’Artagnan forced a laugh. If he didn’t laugh, he might break down in tears. “It’s what it seemed like when you stole my case and pretended not to know me in the morgue--”

“That wasn’t what happened--”

“Or when you asked me if I could tell you about the Milady operation, even though I told you that Captain Treville asked me not to say anything!”

Athos drew himself up. It was the first time d’Artagnan had ever seen him “put on his de la Fere mask,” as Aramis had once said. The result was frightening. It was too close to the angry, unstable person who had stumbled into the conference room earlier that day. When Athos spoke, his voice was cold, but d’Artagnan could hear the trembling underneath.

“I wouldn’t have to ask you for information if you’d talked to Treville about letting me in on the case.”

“He’s my boss, Athos, I’m not some hotshot like you who doesn’t play by the rules. I’m an intern, I can’t just ask for things like that.”

“I deserve to be on that case!”

“Obviously you don’t! Look at the way you’re acting now!”

Athos stuttered. His hands were clenching and unclenching, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. “I--”

D’Artagnan waved his phone at Athos. “My father was murdered by an asshole who thinks he can get out of prison after a year! And all you’ve said about it is that I should be patient and let the law run its course! Well, guess what? What you’re doing sure as hell isn’t letting the law run its course. You’re taking matters into your own hands. Rochefort was right, you’re going to turn into a vigilante.”

Athos’s lip curled back in a sneer. “You’re siding with that pig Rochefort? After he and his ilk laughed me out of the department?”

“I’m not siding with him,” d’Artagnan cried. “But you’re talking about burner phones and stealing our meeting papers. You’re going too far, Athos.” He gentled his voice. “I’m afraid of what this is doing to you. I’ve never seen you like this. I’m afraid that if you go too far, you’ll lose yourself.”

“Don’t tell me that you wouldn’t do anything you could to make sure LaBarge stays in prison,” Athos challenged.

“That isn’t the point.”

“Oh, no? Because your problem trumps mine?”

D’Artagnan flinched as Athos repeated d’Artagnan’s words. He searched for an argument and found only a cold space inside him.

“I’m going to go now,” he said. His heart was still racing, but his words came out evenly. “I said I was going to wait this out, Athos, and I meant it. But right now I think I need to wait it out… away from you.”

Athos looked as though his world had ended. D’Artagnan reached for him but stopped short of touching Athos’ hand.

“Just for now,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I just need space. I need to call my sister and get my shit figured out. And then I can help with your shit.”

He couldn’t stand looking at Athos’ expression any longer. He turned away and gathered up his things.

He put his scarf on, and his boots, and his jacket, and even the gloves that had been sitting unused in his jacket pocket for weeks. He didn’t know whether he wanted to leave with the final word, or if he was waiting for Athos to call out.

Athos still hadn’t spoken by the time d’Artagnan had finished.

D'Artagnan couldn’t look back. He rested his hand on the door handle. “I’ll call tomorrow,” he promised again. And left.

* * * * *

Athos stood stock-still, the silence of his empty apartment buzzing around him. The silence rang off the dirty dishes on the floor and the warm couch and the door that had closed behind d’Artagnan. He stood there for a long time.

Then, in a sudden start of movement, he crossed to an old wooden chest that stood beside the TV stand. It was an old relic from his grandfather, taken from the house before Athos had moved out and left the estate behind for good.

They key was under the TV set. He lay on his belly and felt for it. Once he had brushed his sleeve clean of dust, he unlocked the chest.

Carefully, Athos laid aside the blankets that lay inside the chest. Under the blankets, his hidden wine bottles winked in the light. He knelt and lifted one out, handling it as carefully as if it were a baby.

He carefully closed the chest again and tossed the key under the armoire, another inheritance, that stood in the corner. It would take work to reach it again.

He uncorked it in the kitchen, using the bottle-opener that had also lain in the chest. There were no wine glasses left in Athos’ apartment, not after d’Artagnan had moved into his life and helped him forget his past in a way that wine never had.

The neck of the bottle clinked against the tall drinking glass, and the deep, rich red wine swirled into the glass in a distinct sound that made Athos’ mouth water. His head buzzed in anticipation of the first sip. He remembered this moment just before the first drink. He remembered the moments that came after: the first rush of intoxication; the blissful emptiness; the dark, waiting oblivion. They remembered him too, and they called to him.

He set the glass on the counter and stared at it.

He couldn’t drink. He _wasn’t_ drinking. D’Artagnan and Dr. Pope had seen to that.

This wouldn’t be “drinking,” though, per ce. It would be just one drink.

But one drink led to another, and that to another, and then he’d be back where he was six years ago, sliding into the deep end of a bottle. And for the same reason: Anne.

It was a good vintage. Perfectly aged. It would be a shame to waste it.

There was d’Artagnan’s face to consider, when he smelled the alcohol on Athos’ breath.

But d’Artagnan had left Athos. Walked right out on him.

And the wine was beautiful, even in its poor vessel, glowing red and sinful.

Athos’ hand was around the glass before he even realized it. He brought the wine to his lips and let it hover there, inhaling the scent.

With a vicious twist of hie wrist, he poured the entire glass down the sink. It splashed against the metal sides and gurgled down the drain. A perfectly good vintage wasted.

He turned the faucet on until he couldn’t smell it anymore. He walked away from the sink and fell onto his bed and stayed there, alone in the dark, until the oblivion of sleep claimed him.

He had passed this test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll personally pray for all commenters to be visited by dreams of Porthos doing whatever you'd like to you ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings: spousal emotional abuse, attempted rape.**

The Pavillon de la Reine was the most expensive hotel in Paris. It hosted bureaucrats, foreign diplomats, and anyone who could cough up four hundred Euro per night. The staff was most discreet, expecting that the clientele would provide incentive for their silence.

The woman in the penthouse suite hadn’t yet been a source of gossip for the staff; she tipped too well. Nevertheless, eyebrows were raised and certain glances swapped whenever she was mentioned.

She ordered the top-billed items on the room service menu, regardless of taste. She ate in her room, alone, as far as anyone could tell. She emerged every now and then, sweeping out of the lobby in divine dresses and wide-brimmed hats.

All in all, the woman was a mystery.

Up in her suite, Milady ignored the sensation she was causing and sipped from her flute of champagne. She was celebrating a victory. The most wonderful thing was, she hadn’t had to do anything at all to win it.

She reached out a lazy hand and tapped a button on her keyboard. One of the three monitors set up on her suite's desk paused its video.

She rewound and paused again. On the monitor, Athos was wrapped around his lover. They lay on their couch with dirty dishes on the floor beside them. How slovenly. 

The camera angle was bad; she couldn’t see Athos’ face. But she could see the way that his arm wrapped possessively around d’Artagnan’s shoulders; the way d’Artagnan’s head lay trustingly on Athos’ chest.

Athos had held her like that, once.

Milady jabbed the fast-forward button until d’Artagnan moved out of frame. She turned up the sound.

_“I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I just need space.”_

She smiled and took another sip of champagne. She hit pause and turned her attention to the second monitor. This tape had no visual.

It had been easy enough to install the bugs in Athos’ apartment when she had snuck in disguised as one of the oven installation crew. The camera was well-disguised in the living room. The kitchen, however, was wide and light, with nowhere to discreetly hide a camera. A sound-only bug had had to suffice. 

She turned up the sound and listened to the clink of bottle on glass. She cocked her head at the pause. 

No; Athos wasn’t drinking. He was testing himself. She rewound again and nodded as she listened to the clear chime of glass on glass, then the inhale from Athos -- he was tempted -- and the sound of wine going down the sink. And then footsteps as he walked away.

He’d left the glass in the sink. Could she somehow lure d’Artagnan to Athos’ apartment before Athos had time to hide the evidence?

No; that was overthinking it. She would stick to her plan. After all, they didn’t seem to need any help from her. It gave Milady a thrill to know that Athos feared her so strongly that he was tearing himself to pieces.

She lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to you, Athos,” she said. “May you feel every pain that I suffered.”

* * * * *

**Six years ago**

The Boulevard Périphérique, the highway that separated Paris proper from the city's suburbs, was busy even at this late hour. The passing lane was a streak of red lights in the dark. Cars sped past each other, their drivers making rude gestures as they switched lanes.

One car outstripped all others, leaving drivers honking in its wake. The Bugatti slid from one lane to the next, maneuvering between the slower cars as easily as if they were frozen in place. Inside the car, Milady smiled as the headlights of the slower cars receded in her rearview mirror. More appeared in the mirror, but they disappeared just as fast. She left them all behind.

Athos had been hesitant about the Bugatti, but Milady had changed his mind. It was an investment, and it was paying off in the way that it made her feel good. Powerful. It told all who passed it that the driver could afford such a car. She could afford to crash this and six others and still buy another. As long as Athos didn’t protest -- and he wouldn’t, she’d see to it -- she could drain him dry and buy another hundred cars just like it.

After dreaming of such wealth for so long -- after scrounging for coins and stealing pittances; after selling her body and slitting throats for a week’s rent -- Milady was finally rolling in it. 

Of course, her husband’s wealth didn’t mean that she had given up her job.There was marrying into money, and then there was earning it. She was a damn good conwoman. She had a ruby-encrusted tiara in the boot of her car and three separate bank accounts in Switzerland to prove it.

Besides, who knew how long this marriage would last? It would end; Milady was sure of that. For all his talk about social justice and helping the people of Paris, Athos was too much a cop and too much a product of the upper class to understand how much Milady had surrendered in order to come so far. It took every ounce of her skill as a con artist not to sneer every time he talked about his work. Milady had seen what cops and rich men alike would do to women like her.

Once Athos found out about her, it would all be over. Better to be prepared for the future than be blindsided and penniless when it ended.

She downshifted for the exit, then sped up just to hear the engine rev. She took the exit ramp without braking.

With the Périphérique behind her, the roads were darker and quiet. Trees stretched their branches over the road, blocking the moon’s light. Milady let the Bugatti coast until it reached a speed just under the limit.

She let her mind drift. This was the road that led to the de la Fere estate. This was where she was Anne.

Milady let herself breathe deeply, half-focused on the road and the other half busy reacquainting herself with this familiar identity. It was a technique she used on jobs that required a secret identity. This one was so familiar to her that it was almost an alter ego.

Anne was a wife. She was sweet, with a hint of spark that had caught her husband’s attention when they first met. She liked to go on picnics. She was fond of vanilla ice cream and she liked to wear blue dresses. Her hobbies: horticulture, watching boating festivals, and pressing flowers.

She loved her husband. She loved their enormous house, which was separated from the city by a few essential miles. She loved her husband’s friends, who swapped tips on where to hire the best help and which country club was serving the best paté.

Milady's meditation was cut short when she turned into the driveway of the estate and saw half the house lit from the inside. She frowned. At this time of night, Athos should be in bed with a book.

She brought the car around and saw the car parked out front. She would recognize that flashy piece of scrap metal anywhere.

Thomas was here.

Thomas hadn’t called on his brother in a while. The fact that he was visiting now, suddenly and so recently after Milady’s recent jaunt to England, sent warning tingles up her spine. He had been accepted into Interpol two months ago, she remembered.

Milady hadn’t gotten this far without listening to her instincts.

She parked the car in the garage. She left her tools and the bag with the tiara in the boot of her car; Athos wouldn’t touch it. She slipped her driving gloves off and peered at herself in the mirror. She looked appropriately travel-weary for a woman who had just returned from a business trip.

Anne, she reminded herself as she clicked up the marble steps. She was Anne here.

She let her heels click loudly on the tile floor of the front hall. Voices in the dining room broke off abruptly.

She examined herself in the glass front of the grandfather clock by the stairs and waited for Athos to come to her.

Thomas said something; one of his derisive comments about Anne, probably, as Athos responded warningly. There was a silence and then Athos cleared his throat from behind her.

“Anne,” he said. “You’re home early.”

“Am I?” Anne didn’t look away from her reflection. She saw Athos, behind her, move forward haltingly, then pause. His collar was askew and his cheeks were ruddy. He looked sloppy and unkempt.

“I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” he said. She didn’t have to look to know that his hands were clenching into fists and unclenching; it was his nervous habit when he didn't know what to say.

“My flight was switched.”

Athos approached further. “You should have called me. I would have made everything ready for you.”

“You mean, you would have pretended that Thomas never visited.”

“I didn’t know he was coming over. He wanted to surprise me. Anne…”

“You know he and I don’t get on,” she snapped, finally turning. “How could you see him behind my back?”

“He’s my brother. You make it sound like we’re having an affair.” Athos smiled and reached out to brush Anne’s curls away from her forehead.

She slapped his hand away. “How would I know if you were? I’m gone all the time. You could be seeing other women behind my back. Or _men_.”

Athos paled. His feelings for men had been a major point of contention in their relationship, one she had never forgotten. He’d had to assure her many times that he had never been with a man before he met her.

“I come home to this, and I’m not sure I know what else you’re up to, Athos,” she said coldly. “Who else do you have over when I’m gone?”

“I wouldn’t, Anne, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Athos whispered. The color in his cheeks had faded, and without it he looked even more disheveled than before: a madman, not a drunk. Disgusting.

“I told you I didn’t want you to see him anymore.”

“It’s not that easy. He’s family.”

Anne softened her expression. “Oh, Athos, can’t you see that family can be bad for you?” She reached up and barely, just barely, touched her thumb to the corner of Athos’ eye. “You’re getting wrinkles, my dear. It’s his influence. He’s always resented you. I just can’t see you hurt again. Remember his toast at our wedding?”

Athos couldn’t nod with Anne’s nail so close to his eye, but the look in his eyes answered for him. He said, “He’s apologized for that.”

“He was mocking me. He mocks you, too, behind your back.”

Athos shrugged, but she saw doubt in his eyes. “Thomas always did that. Everyone loves him; he gets away with a lot.”

“He won’t get away with it with me around, protecting you.” Athos opened his mouth to protest and she dropped her hand. “Please, Athos. I’m so tired. I’ve had a long week. Can’t you send him away and we’ll go to bed?” She pressed close to him, close enough to feel his startled breath. She tilted her face to his, leaning in until her lips were a hair's breadth from his. He didn’t move; he knew she didn’t like when he initiated things.

“Send him away,” she whispered. “We’ll have the whole house to ourselves.”

Then she stepped back and swept away to the staircase. She saw Athos sway, as if unbalanced by the loss of her, and knew he’d get rid of Thomas.

The rush that carried her up the staircase was the same chemical rush that hit her after a successful con. It was part of Milady, not Anne. She allowed the blurred identities; after all, Milady had been her way of grasping at wealth she would never reach. Athos had given her the true title - however obsolete - of countess de la Fere. It was only right that seeing Athos made her feel powerful. In control. Like a real lady.

Her heels sunk into the thick carpet that covered the second floor landing. She trailed her fingers over the carved wooden paneling of the walls. She loved being surrounded by the opulence of the estate: the thick curtains that kept out the light; the soft carpet that muffled all sound; the high ceilings and the framed portraits. She loved that it was hers.

She and Athos shared the master bedroom. Athos would have liked one of the smaller ones, but Milady had insisted on the room with the view of the grounds and space enough for a sprawling, four-post bed.

She took off her pearls in front of the mirror and laid them in the cedar jewelry box on the dresser. She shook off her heels and was about to unzip her dress when the bedroom door opened.

Thomas slipped into the room. He shut the door behind him.

Milady ran a mental sweep of her weapons. All in the car.

 _Anne_ , she reminded herself.

“Thomas,” she said, as pleasantly as any wife might say to her brother-in-law.

“Milady,” Thomas greeted politely.

As her blood ran cold, long practice put a confused expression on her face. “Pardon?”

Thomas laughed. The sound of it raked down her spine. Thomas had Athos’ looks, but he had a natural, outgoing charisma that Athos lacked, and he knew it. He came toward her with an amused half-smile on his face.

“Don’t play coy with me,” he said. “I know the real you. Milady de Winter, isn’t that what you call yourself?”

He advanced farther into the room. Anne refused to back up.

“Yes, I know all about your jaunts to relieve certain barons of their jewels,” he continued conversationally. “Interpol has a marvelous database, did you know? All this time I knew you were up to no good. Once I heard about this Milady bitch I knew it had to be you.”

As he came closer, she realized that his hands were shaking. He was emotional. She could use that.

She relaxed her shoulders and shook her hair, letting her curls fall across her pale skin. She looked at him through her eyelashes. “Thomas, really,” she said. “What are you talking about?” She moved closer. Thomas’ eyes fell to her chest. “You know me better than that,” she murmured. “We’re family, aren’t we?”

She had miscalculated. Thomas wrenched his gaze back to her face. He sneered. “Yes, family. You got your claws in Athos. Tricked him into marrying you. It makes sense that you went for him. Athos was never the smart one in the family.”

She smiled coldly. “And you are?”

“That’s right.” Thomas moved even closer, backing her up against the dresser. He was too close, barely half a foot away. She hadn’t been trapped like this for a long time, since Sarazin--

“ _I_ figured you out,” said Thomas. His breath was bitter with wine. “ _I_ did. I got accepted into Interpol. I put together your travel dates and the times of the thefts. _I_ collected the security camera footage.”

Milady saw a spark of hope. This hadn’t been an official investigation. “You didn’t tell anyone.” He looked taken aback, and she laughed in his face. “You’re just a little boy making up stories. You little brothers are so desperate for attention, aren’t you?”

Thomas grabbed her arms, his face distorted with fury. “I told Athos!”

She shook in his grasp, his fingers digging into her flesh. “No,” she gasped. The life she had enjoyed for three years -- the marble halls -- the yachting -- _Athos_ \-- all gone.

“I brought the evidence with me. Athos is looking at it right now. Do you think he’ll love you after he finds out? Do you think anyone will stand by you? They’ll see you for what you really are: a whore who weaseled her way into where she doesn’t belong.” Thomas pulled Anne against him. She could feel his erection pressing against her stomach. “You’ll be glad for my attention when it’s done.”

“No!” Milady wrenched her arm free and punched Thomas in the throat, viciously glad that she hadn’t taken her heavy rings off yet.

He choked and let go of her. Anne kicked him in the shin, making him stumble back, and pushed past him and out of the room.

The stairway was ahead of her; a dark hallway to her left. Milady didn’t hesitate to turn left.

She heard Thomas behind her. “Come… _back_ ,” he rasped.

She didn’t answer, too busy finding the right door. They were all heavy oak, decorated with strips of metal. She scrabbled for the handle and pushed it open. The room was dark, but the moon illuminated the wall of mounted rifles and pistols.

The light rounded the edges of dull, antique rifles and sharpened the lines of the newer models. The collection had been Thomas Senior’s pride and joy. The de la Fere men had violence in their blood.

She couldn’t push the door shut before Thomas was there, forcing it open against his shoulder. She let go and he stumbled in.

Milady was already across the room, lifting a Glock from the wall. She turned and waved the gun at Thomas. “I’ll use this,” she warned. Her voice wavered. “Don’t come any closer.”

With her other hand, hidden by her skirt, she fumbled for the chest that held ammunition.

Thomas’ laughed grated in his throat, emerging sharp and ruined. His neck was bleeding from where her rings had ripped at the skin. “You won’t hurt me. You can’t let anyone know the truth.”

“I’ll tell them the truth myself: that you tried to rape me.” She found the ammunition with her other hand.

“No one will believe you,” said Thomas. Some of his charisma returned, mixing with the rage in his face. He looked like a monster. He looked like all the men Milady had known.

“I know,” she said.

In one continuous motion, she ejected the magazine, loaded a single bullet, snapped the magazine back in, clicked the safety off, pulled back the slide, and pulled the trigger.

The gun exploded in her hands.

Fire erupted from the chamber and scorched Milady’s hands. She dropped the gun and clapped a hand to her throat. A piece of metal had shot off and scraped across her neck. Her hand came away bloody. She tried to swallow and smothered a scream. It was deep. Even if she found medical attention, it would scar.

Thomas’s laughter rang out. “A neck for a neck,” he said. He dragged his hand across his own bloody neck and reached for her with his stained fingers. “Come here, you slut.”

There was another gun, if she just stood up. There was a whole wall of weapons. She would let every single one explode in her hands if the last would kill Thomas.

She lunged for the one closest to her. It was an antique, heavy with embellished metal and with a man’s grip. If it were empty, then it would take a full minute to load powder and bullets separately. 

She pointed it at Thomas and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through the very center of Thomas’ forehead.

Milady watched him topple.

Her only thought, as his face turned slack and the blood dripped down over his eye, was satisfaction that she had loaded the guns that Athos would never touch. Her instinct to arm herself even in her own home had paid off.

If this was even her own home anymore. Athos had read Thomas’ evidence; he had no doubt heard the gunshot. This was the moment when everything ended, unless she played this right. Milady had precious seconds to get her story ready.

She would not lose this life because an interfering pig had tried to take what other men had tried to take from her. She had defeated those men, and she would defeat this one. And his brother.

She staggered to the door and flipped the lights on. She opened the door wider. She waited until she heard Athos’ feet pounding up the stairs. She touched her hands to her neck until they were red.

Anne ran into the hallway. “Oh god, Athos,” she cried. “There’s been a terrible accident.”

* * * * *

**Present day**

Milady drained her glass and set it aside. On the monitor, Athos murmured something into d’Artagnan’s neck.

She rewound the tape again and turned the volume up.

_“Remind me to get you a burner phone.”_

Milady fetched her phone and tapped out a message to her contact at the national phone registry. Finding the phone records of Athos and his friends would be simple.

Her phone pinged. It wasn’t her contact at the phone company; it was another contact, one much more vitally positioned.

She let her computer decrypt the message. When it was done, she clicked through the scanned pages: Blueprints of the Musée de l’Histoire; a timeline of the police department’s shifts; names of the officers on the operation.

Her phone pinged again. This message was easier to decrypt; it was only a sentence of text.

_Heard the wonder couple broke up._

Milady looked back at the agitated figures of d’Artagnan and Athos gesticulating in silent anger in Athos’ apartment. Watched Athos' hands clench and unclench. 

_Way ahead of you._

She left the desk and poured herself another glass of champagne. She would indulge in one more.

And then she had a heist to pull.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock ticks down to Milady's heist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a recovering alcoholic relapsing.

Milady held up a blouse to her chest. Too pink? She set it aside and reached for another. Yes, blue was her color tonight.

In the mirror she could see the reflection of her monitors. Captain Treville was pacing his office again. Silly old man. Any self-respecting thief would sweep for bugs at least twice a week. It just went to show the lax attitude of the police.

Athos’ apartment was empty. She knew where he was, though. The sound-activated bug in the Musketeers Agency’s office had turned on an hour ago. Milady had listened to Athos instruct his coworkers as she’d painted her eyelids.

Athos had ignored two calls from poor little d’Artagnan. It was too bad the boy was tangled up in this. Being snubbed by Athos would be the least of his problems soon enough.

Milady shook her head at her reflection and tossed the blue blouse away as well. Something darker. Navy would suit her. She would have to change her eyeshadow, though.

She smiled at her reflection and went to fetch her makeup. After all, she had plenty of time.

* * * * *

Porthos flipped through a stack of blueprints and cradled his burner phone between his shoulder and chin. “Nothing here about underground tunnels or secret entrances,” he said.

Athos’ exhale crackled over the line. “Good. It was a long shot, but we need to cover every angle.”

“You don’t think that maybe Treville’s thought of this stuff already?” Porthos suggested. He tucked the blueprints away and started climbing the stairs to the main level of the public records office.

“I can’t know, as he left me out of those discussions,” Athos bit off.

Porthos winced. “I know, but you don’t think he maybe…”

“What?”

“Maybe had a reason to keep you away?”

Athos silence spoke for him.

“Right,” Porthos backpedaled. “I’m sure it was oversight on his part. Look, I’m coming back to the office. Want me to pick up some lunch?”

“I’m fine. I’ve had coffee.”

“What about Aramis?”

“Oh. No, Aramis says he’s fine.”

“Alright. I’ll just pick up three sandwiches for myself, then.”

Athos didn’t take the bait. “Be back shortly,” he ordered, and hung up.

Porthos sighed.

* * * * *

“Absolutely no civilians allowed within the perimeters,” Treville barked in his phone. He rubbed his forehead and paced around his desk. His office was carefully furnished to allow for full-room pacing. “No, monsieur. I don’t care if a troupe of circus orphans have been waiting to visit the museum. No one goes there tonight. Your students most definitely included.” 

He waited.

“I’m sure the mayor will tell me all about your complaints. Yes, you too, you…” He slammed the phone down on his desk, muttering oaths under his breath.

He yanked open his door. “Bonacieux! My office, now!”

* * * * *

The logo of France 24 flashed on the TV screen. “Breaking News!” in bold, red font swung across the logo and settled in the top corner as the logo cleared and the camera focused on the newscasters.

A small white hashtag appeared at the bottom of the screen: #Milady.

The female newscaster widened her eyes at the camera in a show of shock. “We have breaking information on a Paris police operation being carried out tonight. Milady, the international thief and con artist, also known as the ex-wife of a police officer and murder suspect, is reportedly back in Paris.”

The newscaster turned to her male partner. “Six years ago, she was arrested for the murder of her brother-in-law, Thomas de la Fere. This is the first time that Milady has been heard from since her trial six years ago, isn’t it, Jean?”

Jean flashed a smile at the camera. “That’s right, Joan. Back then she went by Anne de la Fere.”

“She took her husband’s name,” Joan interjected. She turned back to the camera with a bright smile. “She was married to a police detective, Athos de la Fere. After the trial, de la Fere left the force and formed the Musketeers Agency -- which has been featured in our stories many times.”

A link for more stories about the agency flashed on the bottom of the screen.

Jean tittered. “That’s right, Joan! We’ve heard a lot about them. It makes us wonder if the Musketeers Agency will be involved in this operation!”

“I’m afraid not, Jean,” said Joan cheerily. “There are rumors of contention between the agency and the captain of the police force tasked with capturing Milady.”

A picture of Athos appeared on the screen. He was frowning at something off-screen to his left, his hair windswept and the bags under his eyes particularly prominent. It was not a flattering photograph.

“That’s Athos de la Fere,” said Jean. “We weren’t able to get ahold of him. However, the spokesperson for the police said that the Musketeers Agency is a valued resource for the police force. It makes you wonder, Joan!”

“That it does, Jean!” Joan leaned toward the camera conspiratorially. “Will the public’s safety be compromised by this feud between the police department and the Musketeers Agency?”

“Is Athos de la Fere hindering the investigation?”

“Where is Milady?”

“Will they catch her?”

The newscasters sat back in their chairs. “We’ll continue this report after the commercial break,” said Joan. “Stay tuned!”

* * * * *

“I don’t know, Athos,” said Aramis. He set down his sandwich uneasily. “We know Treville wouldn’t screw this up. The case means a lot to the department too, remember?”

“That didn’t stop them from ruining the case last time,” Athos said acerbically.

“Yeah, but us showing up the Musée? That goes past bad manners.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “That’s obstruction of justice. He could charge you.”

“Take you out of the equation indefinitely,” Aramis added.

Athos tapped his fingers on the office table. He ignored the sandwich that Porthos had set beside him.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But if he should call us…”

“If he calls us, all bets are off,” said Aramis. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Once Treville gets set on something, it’s hard to change his mind.”

* * * * *

Milady carefully applied lipstick. She studied her reflection and pursed her lips. No; that shade was too dark. She reached for a makeup remover pad.

She would try the peach shade next. 

* * * * *

“Hey, Athos. Just calling again. You haven’t answered any of my calls, so I’m just... I’m just calling to make sure you’re okay. Call me back. If you feel like it.”

D’Artagnan hesitated. “Talk to you later.”

He hung up and rested his head against the cool door of the refrigerator. The waning light of the late winter afternoon barely lit the tiny kitchen. He felt the same gloom in his mind. He felt like he was groping for a way through the dark, and Athos was hiding the light.

He sighed and opened his eyes. Enough moping. His shift started in an hour, and he was barely dressed.

He swung open the fridge and found a depressingly empty view. He closed the door, then opened it again. Nope. Nothing had changed.

Where was the chicken masala he’d made the other day? He glared at the conspicuous absence of tupperware.

“Hey, did anyone eat my chicken?” he yelled.

There was a guilty silence, and then a call from Evan’s bedroom: “Dude, I didn’t know it was yours.”

D’Artagnan shut the door as loudly as he could. “So why’d you think it was yours?”

“Sorry, man.”

Now d’Artagnan would have to buy his lunch. Great. He couldn’t afford going out to eat too often, and he’d already forgotten his breakfast and had to buy from the street vendors twice this week.

Resigned to it, he grabbed his coat and ran out the door just in time to catch the bus. He made it to the precinct with two minutes to spare.

Zénaide wasn’t at her desk, and d’Artagnan couldn’t spot Rochefort anywhere in the bullpen. He tossed his coat over his chair and sat down to check his messages.

There was one from Flea. He plugged in his headphones.

“I can’t stand her anymore,” Flea barked into d’Artagnan’s ear. He hastily turned the volume down.

“She has opinions on everything,” the message continued. “She wants ice sculptures. Ice sculptures! Who has ten-foot ice swans at a fundraiser for homeless youth? It’s outrageous. I’m telling you, if you don’t tell Athos to come over here and talk some sense into his ex, I’m going to strangle her with her vegan, faux-silk scarf.”

D’Artagnan’s smile, which had been inching up over the course of the message, dropped off his face. Why was it that he was reminded of Athos at every opportunity?

He deleted the message. Flea would call Porthos next, and he’d soothe xir anger.

There were no messages from Aurelia. She hadn’t answered when he’d called her back after he’d left Athos’ apartment. He had left a message, and another when he’d gotten home.

Unable to sleep, he’d texted Constance to tell her about his fight with Athos. She hadn’t responded either.

D’Artagnan had lain awake for hours, watching the light cast from the streetlights flicker on his bedroom wall until he had fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion and heartbreak in the small hours of the morning.

He came back to the present when Zénaide plopped down in her desk chair and swung her boots up onto d’Artagnan’s desk. He swatted at them, then stilled, his eyes fixed on the large, purple cupcake that Zénaide was unwrapping with an overly casual air.

“Where’d you get that?” D’Artagnan stared at the cupcake. Oh, but it was beautiful.

She peeled the wrapper away and raised an eyebrow. “Get what?”

“That cupcake. You know how I feel about cupcakes.”

“Do I?” Zénaide took a deliberate bite. She chewed slowly and smacked her lips. “Mmm.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “Come on. Are they in the kitchen?”

Zénaide nodded to something behind him. “Incoming.”

“What?” D’Artagnan started to turn and found Clarice, the filing clerk, looming cheerfully over his shoulder.

Clarice hefted a bakery box of cupcakes. “I just ran out and got these. I heard they were your favorite, sweetheart.”

D’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to look at Zénaide, but she was occupied with the rest of her cupcake. He turned back to Carlice. “Me?”

“Of course. I heard all about your breakup with that Athos.” Clarice offered the box. “You can have your pick. It will make you feel better,” she urged when d’Artagnan hesitated.

“We haven’t broken up.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie. The denial always hits hard. Do you want the orange or the pink?”

“Thanks, Clarice, but we really haven’t--”

Clarice deposited an orange-topped cupcake on d’Artagnan’s desk. “There you go. You just ask me if you want another, okay?”

D’Artagnan turned to Zénaide as Clarice swept away. “What did you tell her?”

“Me? I didn’t say anything. I was accosted when I went to make coffee.” She mimicked Clarice’s concerned coo. “‘Oh, honey, I know you must be sad about d’Artagnan and his hunk. Better take this.’”

D’Artagnan spluttered. “We haven’t broken up. We’re just--” He hesitated. “We’re staying separate for a little while.”

“Only couples with kids are separated,” Zénaide said. “For everyone else, it’s the freeze before the breakup. And then you’re watching cartoons at two in the morning and bawling into your ice cream. Or, your bakery boxes of cupcakes, I guess.”

“I’ve never done that,” d’Artagnan lied. “Where’d she hear that, anyway? We just br-- we just _had a fight_ ,” he emphasized, “yesterday.”

Zénaide shrugged. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No. I mean, I texted Constance, but…”

“There you go.”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone. Constance is my friend.” D’Artagnan glanced over at Constance’s desk. She was talking to another detective; as d’Artagnan watched, Constance gestured with her coffee cup and made the detective laugh.

He turned back to Zénaide. “She wouldn’t,” he said firmly.

Zénaide shrugged. “In here, she’s Head Detective Bonacieux. Not Constance. Cops are terrible at keeping secrets, you know that.”

D’Artagnan turned his attention to his cupcake and didn’t answer.

“Hey. Rochefort’s going into the conference room.” Zénaide pointed. “Looks like the meeting’s starting.”

D’Artagnan jumped to his feet and wiped his mouth. “Of course he wouldn’t come get us. D’you have the info packets?”

“Here.” Zénaide handed him the packets that Captain Treville had handed out, but she didn’t get up to join him.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Zénaide jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Detective Moeller agreed to take me on ride-alongs this week. I can’t stand Rochefort anymore.”

Artagnan stared at her. “What about the op?”

“I’m not with Rochefort any longer, so I’m off the op. It’s fine. I like working the beat better.”

“But--” D’Artagnan glanced back at the conference room. All the others had filed in.

“Go on,” said Zénaide. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah. Have fun with Moeller.” He placed his cupcake on his desk and gave her a stern look. “Guard this with your life.”

D’Artagnan was the last to take a seat in the conference room. Captain Treville was already standing in front of the projector. Constance -- Detective Bonacieux -- and Interpol Agent Owusu were also standing at the front of the room. Constance was busy with her papers; she didn’t look d’Artagnan’s way.

An officer d’Artagnan had never talked to leaned over and whispered, “Sorry about the breakup. I hear it was rough.”

“Oh my god,” d’Artagnan said. “We’re not--”

Captain Treville cleared his throat. “Lights,” he ordered. D’Artagnan gave up and turned to the front of the room.

“As you know, we started shifts on the Musée this morning,” said Captain Treville. “Those of you gathered here are on the next shift. We have transport to the spot waiting out back.”

He inspected the assembled group. “You’ve all been briefed on your positions and roles. Team leaders, are you clear on your instructions?”

The team leaders assented.

“Good. Milady is predicted to move tonight. This shift is the most critical. This is our chance to catch her. Move out!”

* * * * *

From the street, the Musée de l’Histoire de France was a tall gate on a narrow avenue; only another sandy-colored structure in a row of similar buildings.

It was the sight beyond the gate that betrayed the Musée's original purpose as a summer home for French nobility. The cobblestone courtyard just inside was split by carefully trimmed lawn, and ringed by a curving row of columns which held up the magnificently carved roof. The roof only extended over the columns; the rest of the courtyard was open to the sky, the better to impress the size and grandeur of the front antechamber on its visitors.

The exterior façade of the antechamber towered over the courtyard. More columns surrounded the door and supported a triangular pediment, which in turn held up the female figures of Liberty and Justice, their spears and banners pointed toward the heavens. Other figures of marble and silver stood on their own plinths to either side, jutting out from the front of the building.

Much to Treville’s disgruntlement, the number of possible exits from this side of the antechamber alone numbered fourteen -- not counting roof access. The Musée was comprised of a dozen more buildings, each of equally lavish design, and each with as many possible exits.

Fortunately, Milady’s predicted method of roof-hopping narrowed the possibilities. The buildings weren’t of a height, but the difference between rooftops was small enough that a determined thief could easily make her way across the entirety of the Musée without ever touching the ground.

Officers were stationed on the tops of buildings, five to a roof. They had all climbed the ladders with a certain amount of grumbling.

D’Artagnan peered out of the rear window of the surveillance van. He could just see a shadowy figure of Captain Treville on the narrow roof above the courtyard; only a grey figure against the black sky.

A hand grabbed the collar of d’Artagnan’s uniform and jerked him away from the window. He came back to the stuffy interior of the van with a sigh.

“Don’t be seen,” Rochefort said curtly.

D’Artagnan scowled at Rochefort and wrenched himself free. “I wasn’t going to be.”

Rochefort pointed at the chair. “Sit.”

“I don’t see any reason why we have to be stuck in here while everyone else is patrolling,” d’Artagnan grumbled. He settled in one of the ratty chairs by the low, built-in counter that was piled high with monitors and recording equipment.

Rochefort snorted. “You’re it, kid. As long as there’s a newbie on an op, they’re going to stash him in the van. And as long as you’re my ride-along, I’m going to be stuck with you.”

“Gee, sound happier about it.”

Rochefort gulped from his thermos of coffee. “Get your officer badge, and we’ll both be happy.”

“That’s the goal. But I guess once I do that, I’ll get my own intern to train.” D’Artagnan threw his head back and groaned. “I thought being a cop was all about saving the day. No one said there’d be this much bullshit.”

Rochefort smiled sourly. “Now you’re getting it. Being a cop is one toil after another. If you wanted to be a hotshot, you should have applied to the Musketeers Agency.” Rochefort threw d’Artagnan a look filled with humor that d’Artagnan didn’t share. “Though I expect you would have be kicked out now. Workplace break-ups aren’t conducive to office peace.”

“We’re not broken up,” d’Artagnan said, for maybe the fifth time that day. “We’re just taking some time to…” He sighed and slumped in his seat. “I’m tired of explaining this.”

“Take it as a sign,” Rochefort advised. “If you can’t defend it, then obviously your passion for it is gone.” He turned back to the monitors. D’Artagnan made a face at the back of his head.

The speaker that projected the department’s communication crackled to life with an unfamiliar voice. “Captain?” There was a pause. “Captain Treville?”

Treville’s voice came through a moment later. “Listening.”

“There’s a woman on the phone asking to speak to you.”

Treville barely stifled a curse. “This operation is strictly radio silence,” he hissed.

“I know, sir. But she’s threatening to come down to the Musée. She says she’s the curator?”

Treville didn’t bother holding back the swears this time. “I thought we contacted everyone on the stakeholder list,” he said. D’Artagnan heard his breathing pick up and the sounds of shingles crunching as Treville paced. “Who’s this woman?”

Rochefort pointed at the thick binder by d’Artagnan’s elbow. D’Artagnan scrambled for the binder and flipped through the papers. He found the correct page and pointed at the name of the curator, holding it so Rochefort could see.

Rochefort clicked on the walkie-talkie. “Captain, the curator is named Muriel deBleu. Forty-six years old; lives in the tenth arrondissement.”

“So she’s close,” Treville said grimly. “And she said she was coming here?”

The dispatch officer stuttered, caught by surprise. “Uh, yeah. She said she wanted to talk to you in person. I still have her on the line, sir.”

“Good. Patch me through on my cell.”

* * * * *

Treville tore out the earpiece and stuffed it in in the pocket of his windbreaker. The night was cold, but the adrenaline thrumming through his body warmed him.

“Of all the complications,” he muttered. He ignored the nearest officer pretending not to hear the captain talking to himself, and paced farther away on the roof.

The phone clicked as the dispatch officer transferred the call. A woman’s voice, high-pitched and slightly nasal, continued talking mid-sentence.

“--the unbelievable misconduct of the police department. Don’t think I won’t be telling Mayor Hidalgo about the way I’ve been ignored!”

“Madame deBleu,” Treville interrupted loudly. “This is Captain Treville of the 32nd. I understand you wanted to speak to me.”

“I-- Yes! Yes, I do, Captain Treville. I wish to speak to you about the deplorable treatment I received when I conveyed my concerns to your department!”

“I’m very sorry for any inconsideration you were shown, Madame,” said Treville. “We--”

“I certainly hope so! I only have my art in mind, captain, and I’m very concerned about the damage that might be done to any of the pieces.”

“Madame,” Treville interrupted, “We already went over the procedure for the force’s use of the museum for the night.”

“That’s just it!” Madame deBleu shrilled. “I heard on the news that Milady is a dangerous criminal! Not just an art thief -- a murderer! Shots could be fired. Priceless paintings irreversibly damaged. Perfectly preserved sculptures broken!”

Treville took the phone away from his face long enough to hiss at the detective near him. “Call Bonacieux -- I want to know everything the news is saying about the op.” He returned the phone to his ear and said, with a teeth-grinding cousin of pleasantry, “Madame, this is a high-risk operation. I have to ask that you trust our judgement--”

“I can’t rest until I know that my art will be safe,” said Madame deBleu. Treville heard her say to someone else, “60 Rue des Francs Bourgeois. Quickly!”

“Do not come here!” Treville barked into the phone, beginning to pace again unconsciously.

“The history of France rests in my hands, captain. I take my job very seriously!”

“I will have you arrested on obstruction of--” The phone went dead. Madame deBleu had hung up on him.

Treville cursed and pointed at the detective on the roof with him. “You, keep me updated on the news.” The detective nodded nervously. Treville jammed his earpiece back in and started clambering down the ladder to the courtyard. “I’ve got to stop this woman from ruining our entire op.”

* * * * *

“All units, the curator is en route to this location.” Treville’s voice over the radio was hard and cold with repressed fury. “I believe she is arriving in a taxi. Do not allow her to exit the taxi. Do not not allow her entry to the Musée.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Rochefort as Treville’s voice sounded in the surveillance van. Rochefort looked unconcerned.

“Should we stop her? I mean, if we see her roll up?”

“Don’t count on the detective grade if this is your logic,” Rochefort drawled. “We maintain our cover. Units who are closer will do their job.”

“But Treville put all the units on the roof--”

Rochefort held up a finger to stop d’Artagnan, and then pointed it at the radio.

As if on cue, Treville said, “I am currently moving to point one, entry gate. I will intercept the taxi. All units stay alert.”

Rochefort leaned back and fiddled with some knobs on the soundboard. “He’s got it covered. We stay here and let them do the work.”

“What’s that on the monitor?” d’Artagnan suddenly said. He pointed at a figure approaching the gate to the Musée, across the street from the van. It wasn’t a woman. No; d’Artagnan recognized that gait. “That’s Athos.”

“Shit,” said Rochefort. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know.” D’Artagnan looked at Rochefort. “What do we do?”

Rochefort reached for the walkie-talkie. “We tell Treville.”

* * * * *

Treville arrived at the gate in time to block Athos’ entry, across the street from the surveillance van. “Athos! You were specifically ordered to stay out of this.”

Athos stopped short. “Don’t play with me, Treville. If you don’t want me on your team, then tell me so.”

“Haven’t I been clear? You’re off the op.” Treville brushed past Athos. “I have bigger problems than you right now. Get out of the way.”

Athos moved to block Treville. “You specifically asked for my help at this location not twenty minutes ago. Don’t tell me…” He trailed off. “You didn’t call me,” he said quietly.

“I’ve gathered that,” Treville said. “Are you here to tell me things I already know?” A white taxi was approaching, moseying up the narrow street like a large white whale venturing into the dark depths of the ocean. Treville flashed his badge at it.

“I got a call from dispatch,” Athos said. He moved to block Treville’s view of the taxi.

“Athos, get--” 

Athos grabbed Treville’s arm. “A woman gave me your orders to come here. A woman with a high, nasal voice.” He turned to look at the taxi. “Who is this supposed to be?”

“The curator,” said Treville. “A woman -- Muriel deBleu --”

“She called you, I assume?”

“A woman with a nasal voice,” Treville said slowly. “She…”

The taxi came to a rolling stop in front of Treville, its white vacancy sign glowing in the dark. The car had no passenger.

Treville ran to the driver’s side and wrenched at the handle. The door swung open and the driver lurched sideways, demanding what Treville was doing in a strong Belgian accent. Treville spared a glance for the back seat and found it empty, as he had expected.

“Who ordered this taxi?” Treville demanded. He thrust his badge in the driver’s face. “Who called you?”

“A woman!” the driver yelped. “She called us five minutes ago. I was the nearest taxi, so I came. I don’t know anything!”

Treville looked at Athos and saw the same thought reflected in his eyes.

“Milady,” said Treville.

A moment later they were both racing for the gate.

“All units in position!” Treville barked as he ran across the courtyard. “The target is on the premises. I repeat, the target is here. All units on the roofs. Keep the line open.”

Treville didn’t stop Athos from following him to the ladder that led to the courtyard roof. He did say, “Athos, my agreement to allow you to enter the site is contingent upon your--”

“Yes, yes.” Athos impatiently acknowledged the rest of Treville’s official, breathless, statement. “I’ll cooperate.”

They mounted the roof. Treville motioned for silence from Athos and the detective in position. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, breathing hard. “Report,” he ordered.

“All clear,” said the detective in lead of the units in the main building. The others sounded off. Treville waited in tense silence for further word -- a sudden alarm or outcry -- but all seemed quiet.

Athos leaned close to Treville’s and whispered intently. “I’ve told you that she isn’t a thief. She’s a con artist. She’s conning your department. Whatever setup you’ve got, she’ll be a step ahead of it. She lured me here and tricked you. She’s set us up for a failure.”

“Shut it, Athos.”

“I’m here to help, Treville.”

“Funny how you’re doing the opposite,” Treville snapped. “I won’t tell you again: quiet.”

Athos stared at Treville in silence, his face unchanging from its mask of frustration. He seemed about to speak, the words gathering behind his bared teeth. Treville was hyper-aware of their position: Athos leaning toward him; Treville’s detective at his back, watching on; the courtyard opening up below Athos; the surveillance just in sight across the street; the tense, cold winter night air and the rooftop detectives listening in on their earpieces.

A bang broke the silence. Athos and Treville both turned to find the sound.

The door of the antechamber had slammed open. In the open doorway they could see that the lights were on in the building, against Treville’s orders; they flared too-bright in the darkness. A figure in a familiar police-issue jacket and cap was framed in the doorway.

Treville squinted. “Units report, who’s at point three--”

The figure swept off the hat and shook out her hair. She tossed the hat onto the cobblestones and deliberately stepped on it as she strode out of the doorway. Her non-regulation heels clicked on the stones and echoed in the still air. Under her arm, she carried a square package large enough for a music box.

Athos staggered. Treville grabbed a handful of his jacket and pulled Athos away from the roof’s edge.

Without breaking stride, Milady cocked her head coquettishly, tilting her gaze up to where Athos and Treville stood. Her eyes swept over them dismissively. Treville felt exposed, as if the camouflage of the night sky had turned to a neon sign. His hand was clenched in Athos’ jacket; he couldn’t have let go if he’d tried.

Milady raised two fingers to her forehead and flicked them in a parody of a salute. She was halfway across the courtyard.

Athos made a strangled sound. “The ladder--”

Treville took a step forward and saw what Athos meant. The ladder was gone.

Athos moved forward, crouching at the edge of the roof, gripping the shingles as if about to swing over. Treville grabbed the back of his jacket again. “Don’t! It’s twenty-five feet. The drop would kill you.”

“All your people are on the roof,” Athos barked. “No one will get down there in time--” He struggled against Treville’s hold. “Let me go!”

“I won’t let you kill yourself for her. All units to point one!”

Athos squirmed out of his jacket. “I can’t let her get away.”

“Athos!” Treville caught his arm in a tight hold.

“The van,” Athos said. Milady was approaching the gates. “The officers in the van, use them. Tell them to get her!” His voice rose as Milady strode coolly through the gate.

“We don’t know if she’s armed. I’m not letting an intern run out there and get hurt--” Treville stopped short.

Athos caught the inference. “D’Artagnan?”

The sound of running feet in the antechamber preceded the officers who appeared a second later. Four figures dashed out of the building and across the courtyard.

From outside the gate, a car door slammed. Athos jerked in Treville’s hold. “Is that--”

It wasn’t the van. With a squeal of tires, the taxi, with Milady safely inside, took off.

The officers’ footsteps clattered to a stop, echoing over the courtyard, as they realized that their quarry was out of reach.

“Vehicle still in sight, captain,” one said. “What are your orders?”

Treville let go of Athos’ jacket and stepped back. He raised a hand to his earpiece. “Stand down,” he said wearily. “She’s gone. All units reconvene at the precinct.”

* * * * *

The surveillance van, with its cables to disconnect and recordings to label and store, was the last police vehicle to return from the Musée.

D’Artagnan slowly climbed the steps of the precinct, dread roiling in his stomach. Rochefort shouldered past him.

D’Artagnan hesitated, then called out, “Did we do the right thing?”

Rochefort paused, halfway through the door. “What?”

“Staying in the van. Should we have gone after her instead?”

Rochefort smiled unpleasantly. “You’re afraid your boyfriend will be mad at you? Don’t worry. He ruined the operation all by himself.” He pushed through the door.

“Prick,” d’Artagnan muttered. He took a deep breath and followed Rochefort into the station.

The bullpen was practically a riot scene. Detectives were shouting at each other, Aramis was shouting at Athos, and Captain Treville was shouting at everyone. Porthos was standing at Constance’s desk, arguing passionately judging by the wild hand gestures.

D’Artagnan spotted Rochefort standing just behind Captain Treville, looking like he was enjoying the mess immensely.

Zénaide appeared by d’Artagnan’s side. “What happened? I heard Athos showed up and let her get away. Is it true?”

D’Artagnan shook his head wordlessly and moved away, deeper into the chaos. He passed detectives whispering and others shouting frantic orders to each other as they juggled phones. He heard one shout something about the local news station.

He reached Athos and Aramis just as Treville shouted, “No more of this! I can’t have rogue civilians infiltrating high-risk operations and putting their own lives and the lives of my officers at risk! You’re banned!” He was beet-red.

The station’s noise level dropped immediately. The surrounding crowd seemed to lean in, watching avidly.

Detective Bonacieux broke through the crowd.

“Sir,” she said, “the mayor is on the line for you.” She handed a phone to Captain Treville, who glared at everyone and turned toward his office, raising the phone to his ear. Constance darted back into the sea of detectives.

“Mayor Hidalgo,” Treville said formally, before he closed his office door and his voice was muffled.

D’Artagnan turned to Athos and found him still staring after Treville. His face was ashen, his jaw clenched.

Aramis put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Perhaps we should vacate the premises while we still have our heads, if not our partnership with the police,” he suggested.

Athos shook him off. “I’m not leaving until I speak with him,” he growled. “It’s the fault of his officers that Milady got away. I intend to hold him accountable.”

The surrounding crowd within earshot made discontent noises.

D’Artagnan shuffled closer to Athos, eyeing his coworkers. “Aramis is right,” he said. “You should go. Things were messed up on both sides, and--”

“Both sides?” said a loud voice whose owner d’Artagnan couldn’t see. “Bullshit!”

“Yeah, it’s only one person’s bloody fault, and that’s him,” said someone else. “He shows up, thinking he can butt into the operation we’ve spent our time planning--”

“As I explained to the captain, Milady lured me to the Musée,” Athos said pleasantly. His eyes flashed with anger.

“You just wanted to see the one that got away!” a woman shouted.

“Got away with his millions,” another anonymous voice sniggered. The officers whom d’Artagnan could see elbowed each other and chuckled.

“Lay off him,” d’Artagnan said aggressively, looking around at the crowd.

“You forget that you’re one of Treville’s men as well,” Athos said. “I don’t need an intern defending me.”

There was a low mutter from the assembled detectives.

D’Artagnan flinched away from Athos. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

D’Artagnan turned to him, ignoring the crowd. “You obviously do!”

“Why should I hide behind someone who won’t leave a surveillance van in order to apprehend a criminal?” Athos drew himself up with icy dignity. “I have no need of your help.”

D’Artagnan had to take a deep breath to keep himself steady.

“Fine,” he said. “If you don’t want me around, then I’ll leave.”

Athos’ face went bone-white. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant,” d’Artagnan said. His voice was trembling; his hands shook. “I can’t help you with Milady. I can’t do anything for you. I thought you needed time to get over your problems, but I guess I’m your problem. I’m just one of the enemy, right?” He forced a sharp laugh and stepped away from Athos. “You’ve done nothing but push me away. I’m taking the hint. I’m gone.”

Athos’ hand twitched toward d’Artagnan, then fell back to his side.He took a step back.

Aramis grabbed Athos’ shoulders. “Athos,” he hissed, “what are you doing--”

Captain Treville emerged from his office. The crowd’s attention swung away from the drama, toward the captain. Treville seemed to be doing deep-breathing exercises through his nose. “It seems you have a fan, Athos.” He took in the tension of the room and frowned. “What’s going on?”

Aramis stepped forward. “Nothing, sir.”

Captain Treville eyed him suspiciously. “It had better be. Starting now, per the mayor’s orders, the Musketeers Agency will be heading the chase for Milady.”

Whispers broke out among the gathered detectives. Treville quelled them with a glare.

“The mayor seems to think you have the best handle on this case,” he said directly to Athos. “You had better not prove her wrong.”

D’Artagnan, his face still white with fury, stepped forward, putting Athos behind him. He felt small and alone in the middle of the circle of avidly watching detectives. “Sir, I formally request removal from the operation. I can’t work with him.”

Treville stared at him, and then at Athos. “Christ,” he muttered. He leveled a finger at Athos. “The minute this is over, you’re out.”

“Noted,” said Athos, and nodded to Aramis. The crowd parted for them. As they passed Constance’s desk, Porthos fell into step with them. They left together, Porthos and Aramis flanking Athos until they vanished out the door. And d’Artagnan was left alone in the eye of the storm.

Buzzing conversation sprang up in their wake. D’Artagnan tried to ignore the stares. Getting dumped by your boyfriend in front of your coworkers: not ideal.

Treville beckoned d’Artagnan over. He motioned for Rochefort to join them.

“I’m assigning you to Rochefort for the duration of the Milady case,” Captain Treville said.

D’Artagnan just barely suppressed a groan. “Just what I need,” he muttered.

“What was that, d’Artagnan?” Treville asked sharply. “I’m sure I didn’t just hear an intern backtalk his captain.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Rochefort, focus on that case we spoke of earlier this week. Keep me updated.” Treville strode off before either could say anything.

Rochefort didn’t look at d’Artagnan. “Shift’s over. See you tomorrow.” He left without another word.

* * * * *

Porthos glanced back through the doors of the precinct and saw a gaggle of wide-eyed detectives trailing after them.

“Alright, what was that?” he asked. Athos didn’t answer.

Porthos caught up with Athos and put a hand to Athos’ chest. Athos stopped on the marble stairs outside the police station and glared at Porthos. The detectives clustered at the top of the stairs, whispering to each other.

“What the hell are you doing?” Porthos demanded.

“None of your business.”

“Fuck that!” Porthos jabbed a finger at Athos’ face. “We stand behind you for everything, and that’s the only reason I didn’t stop you in there. Dumping d’Artagnan in front of everyone?”

“He finished it,” Athos said tightly.

“And you let the best person that’s ever happened to you walk away. I have half a mind to walk away from you and see what you do.”

“Speaking of breaking ties,” said Aramis in a forcefully casual way, “what were you thinking when you compromised a police investigation and lost us our partnership?”

“We haven’t lost it,” Athos said dismissively.

“Yeah, only because it’s not next week and Milady hasn’t been caught yet!”

“She will be,” said Athos. “I’ll make sure of it.” He pushed past Porthos.

Porthos’ words stopped him. “Was it worth it? Pushing away d’Artagnan to chase after her?”

“Catching her is all that matters,” said Athos. “Anyone who can’t see that doesn’t belong at my side.”

A body pushed past Porthos, rudely close. Rochefort descended the steps and laughed. “That worked for you last time, did it? Oh, that’s right. You ended up alone and without justice. The more things change, eh?” He was gone in another moment.

Athos stood still, absorbing the words, and then he descended the rest of the steps. He didn’t check to see whether Porthos and Aramis followed. He walked away and left them standing on the stairs.

It began to snow.

* * * * *

* * * * *

It was the first snowfall of the winter, and it was the postcard-perfect kind of snow: light and gentle as it covered sidewalks and eaves.

Milady remembered a time when Athos would have made her hot chocolate and served it to her while she sat in the window seat of their estate and watched the snow cover the fields and gardens. She would have let him take her to bed while the snow blanketed the world. She would have lain under the covers, warm and adored, as he’d trace her skin with his fingertips, whispering his secrets to her…

Now she stood in the cold, feeling snowflakes settle in her hair and her scarf. Her boots were thin, and she could feel her feet freezing with every minute she stood here.

But it was worth it. One more nail in Athos’ coffin was worth an eternity of cold feet.

She stood outside the pub whose bar Athos was sitting at. She could just make out his face through the window. 

He was staring at a tumbler of whiskey like it held the devil himself. She knew these tests that addicts liked to give themselves. Lesser people, those with weak willpower.

Milady knew exactly how strong Athos’ willpower was, and that hers was stronger. She had bent him to her wishes before and she would do it again.

Her only wish, this time around, was for his destruction.

She held an umbrella over her head and her phone in her hand, for all appearances a woman listening to music and waiting for a bus under the awning of a pub.

Athos’ phone rang in her ears. She watched him fumble for his phone inside the bar.

A moment later, his voice sounded on Milady’s phone. “Yes?”

A woman’s voice responded. Milady recognized it vaguely. “Athos, I just had the best idea for the party. You know how Flea was a pickpocket? Well, what if we had a demonstration? A little show for the guests? Wouldn’t that be darling?”

“Ninon,” Athos said.

Ah yes, Ninon de Larroque. Milady had once scouted her as a potential mark, but Ninon hadn’t responded to her advances. She had acted as if she could still see the grime of the streets on Milady, and Milady had dropped her quickly. Milady had seen Ninon again once or twice at social functions, but had largely steered clear of her.

“What’s wrong?” Ninon asked Athos. “You sound down.”

“D’Artagnan and I…”

Athos paused long enough for Ninon to understand. “Oh no,” she breathed. “Did you…?”

Athos toyed with the tumbler of whiskey, striving for casual. “We broke up, I suppose.”

“Oh, Athos. I’m sorry. I was afraid this would happen.”

“Give it a rest, Ninon. You aren’t right all the time.”

“I’m not claiming to be psychic,” said Ninon, and Milady recognized that waspish tone from her days playing high-society lady. All those women were the same; they’d jump at the chance to gloat over another’s misfortune. “All I’m saying is that I can’t claim to be surprised,” Ninon continued.

Athos sighed. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

Ninon’s voice turned syrupy sweet. “Oh, I’m sorry, Athos. I should be concentrating on you. Look, why don’t you come to the party?”

Milady saw Athos scrub his hand over his face. It was an old tic: he was striving for patience. “I thought it was a fundraiser.”

“It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Anyway, it’s only two days away.”

“Is it?”

“Do come; it will be good for you. I have to go.”

“Nin--” He broke off at the click of Ninon hanging up. Athos hung up too, and the line in Milady’s ear went dead.

Athos dropped the phone back into his pocket. He picked up the tumbler again and tilted it from side to side, considering the drink.

Milady pulled out her own phone. She dialed a number and waited.

Through the blurry window, she could see Athos pat himself, check his personal phone, and then pull out his burner phone.

Really, thinking he could trick her with something so transparent.

“Who is this,” Athos said.

“Hello, Athos,” Milady said. She reveled in the half-gasp Athos made before he stifled the sound.

“How did you get this number?”

Milady smiled. “You aren’t as clever as you’d like to think. I’m sure your boyfriend and I could trade some fascinating notes about you. Oh, that’s your ex-boyfriend, isn’t it? I heard about the scene at the police station.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing you haven’t already given me. I’ve watched you run yourself to the ground and lose everything you hold dear. I didn’t have lift a finger.”

Athos’ breath was loud in her ear. “Then why are you calling?”

“I wanted to say goodbye one last time. I’m leaving Paris in two days.”

“You’re not worried that I’ll catch you in that time?”

Milady laughed. “Not with your track record, darling.”

“I will. I’ll--”

Milady hung up.

She watched through the window as Athos realized he’d been dismissed. He slowly put the phone next to his tumbler of whiskey. She watched his hand find the glass automatically. His fingers wrapped around it.

She stood on the corner, waiting, until Athos raised the drink to his mouth and downed the shot.

She smiled, satisfied. And then, in a flurry of snowflakes, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful art is by [fearlessstateofmind](http://fearlessstateofmind.tumblr.com/). Go show him some love on his tumblr!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One of the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for alcoholism backslide mentioned, and a female character feeling physically threatened by a male character.

_Thump_.

The fist that slammed down on Captain Treville’s desk jolted Milady’s listening device and sent feedback skittering through her speakers.

“Dammit, Treville!” That was Athos. His voice was tight with rage. “This is exactly the kind of information I could have used to stop her before she ever made it to the Musée. If I had known that she was robbing the building that held the currency imprint dies which my family donated to the museum, I could have told you so.”

“You say you _could_ have, but _would_ you?” Treville’s voice also showed signs of anger.

“I have shown nothing but clear evidence of my goal to stop her.”

“Yet you constantly interfered with my operation and stuck your nose into--”

“Don’t forget I was personally invited by the mayor--”

“--and deliberately undermined my efforts--”

“-withheld crucial evidence--”

“Gentlemen!” That was Aramis. “Let’s calm down, shall we? Athos, we didn’t know that she was going after the currency dies. Right?”

Treville’s deep sigh of rage could be heard even from under his desk, where the listening device clung to the dark wood. “That is correct,” he said stiffly. “The music box seemed the most fitting choice for a heist.”

“I told you that she was a conwoman through-and-through,” Athos said. “With those dies, she has a means of recreating ancient coins. If made correctly and shown to the right private collector, her fakes could be worth millions. She was never after the music box at all. She only wanted a new con and a way to humiliate me. She knows--” He stopped abruptly.

Treville didn’t seem to notice. “She got the better of us all, Athos. What we need to do now is regroup and find a way to track her. We should start by pooling our knowledge.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen enough of your department’s incompetency. I want all the information on Milady turned over to us.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t forget, Treville. I’m heading up this investigation now. Per the mayor's orders.”

“Athos…”

“Quiet, Aramis. As the leader of the case, I decide where the information goes. And I say that it will be delivered to the agency within the hour.” There was the sound of fabric rustling; shoes scraping against the floor; the door being opened. “Good day.”

* * * * *

INCOMING TEXT. CLONED PHONE #4: "D’ARTAGNAN"

To: Constance  
I can’t believe that happened

To: Constance  
What am I gonna do?

To: Constance  
I feel like it’s a mistake somehow

From: Constance  
You know some people are trying to sleep. Right

To: Constance  
...seriously? Athos and I are finished.

From: Constance  
I know. I was there.

To: Constance  
Excepting a little more compassion tbh.

From: Constance  
Ok.

To: Constance  
Hold on are you blaming me for this??

From: Constance  
I’m not getting into this right now

To: Constance  
Because if you noticed he chose to agree with me!! He could have asked me to stay!

From: Constance  
You didn’t give him much of a chance did you? This is a really tough time for him. Milady brings back all the bad memories of the past. He was hurt by her a lot. Now you’ve hurt him too d’Artagnan.

To: Constance  
He’s obsessed with her

From: Constance  
That’s selfish.

From: Constance  
I’ve seen Athos dealing with this longer than you’ve known him.

From: Constance  
Remember, I was his friend first.

* * * * *

A little after seven in the morning, Milady’s monitors captured Aramis’ face peering into the camera that she had mounted atop the equipment lockers in the Musketeers Agency. The feed from that bug cut abruptly.

It was no matter; she still had the audio-only device planted under Athos’ desk. It was one of better ones. It had cost a pretty penny, but the quality was remarkable and the range extended to the corners of the room.

“No phones,” Athos was saying now. “No contact with each other unless it’s face-to-face. We stay together at all times.”

“That’ll make bathroom breaks a bit tricky.”

“This is no time for jokes, Aramis. We have less than forty hours to catch An-- catch her.”

He was still slipping with her name. She smiled -- a little wistful, a little viciously,vengefully glad -- and continued her work.

“Right, of course.”

“First, we’ll go to Forgeron’s house. I suspect she seduced him in order to attain his means of entry to the Musée. We may find additional clues there. By the time we finish there, Interpol should have delivered their records to us. We may find a link to a contact she has in Paris.”

“Question.”

“What, Porthos?”

“Do we have any say in this, or are we just expected to shut up and follow your lead?”

“The latter.”

“Hey, now--”

“We have no time to argue! She slips further away with every passing moment. We must follow every lead as quickly as possible.”

“How d’you even know she’s still around?”

“It’s the common technique of the criminal class. She has to lie low for a short time.”

He didn’t mention Milady calling his burner phone the night before. Milady smiled to herself. She had judged him correctly.

She’d show him that the “criminal class” shouldn’t be underestimated.

The deep rumble of Porthos clearing his throat crackled over the speaker. “Athos, you don’t look so good. Have... have you been drinking?”

Silence.

“Athos--”

“Let go of me, Aramis.”

“It’s barely been eight hours since we left the station. Did you go straight to a bar?”

“Drop it.”

“No, I won’t. I thought you’d stopped that shit. Are you letting her win so easily?”

“She isn’t winning,” Athos said coldly. “She won’t win. I won’t let her.”

“What would d’Artagn--”

A warning hiss, presumably from Porthos.

Athos: “I wouldn’t know what he would say, and I don’t care to seek his opinion.”

“You haven’t talked to him since…?”

“No. He made his feeling quite clear.”

Athos didn’t mention the five calls from d’Artagnan last night, all of which had rung for only one second before he’d hung up. Milady had counted them as she’d dined on lobster in her hotel room, still high from the rush of success.

“We’re wasting time,” said Athos. “We need to be at Forgeron’s house.”

“You’re not driving,” said Porthos. “Come on. We’re talking about this later, don’t think you can wiggle out of it.”

“After she’s gon-- we’ve found her,” said Athos. “When it’s done.”

* * * * *

The newscasters of France 24 cast artfully worried frowns at the camera.

“Captain Treville issued a statement today that the police department actually failed to capture renowned thief and murderer Milady last night. Now you may remember, the last time that Milady was in Paris, she was put on trial for killing her brother-in-law, Thomas de la Fere.”

A photo, slightly blurry by today’s high-definition standards, appeared on the screen. A white man with short brown hair grinned at the camera. He was wearing a polo shirt and had his arm around an out-of-frame someone’s shoulders.

“And you may also remember, Joan, that Milady went free.”

“That’s right, Jean. Now that she’s eluded the law again, it makes one wonder: are we really being protected?”

“That’s a great question, Joan. Are the police doing their duty? What about the Musketeers Agency?”

A photo of Athos replaced Thomas’s image. He was descending the steps in front of the police department; he looked disheveled and worried.

“For some reason, Athos de la Fere of the Musketeers Agency still seems to be involved in the case. We caught him leaving the police department earlier today. He gave no comment about his involvement.”

“The police are also very tight-lipped about Athos’ position on the case. But you can only imagine, Jean, that they must be resentful about Athos muscling his way in.”

“I can imagine, Joan!”

They cast twin looks to the camera: a perfect balance of gleeful concern.

“We’ll see how well this investigation goes with Athos de la Fere involved. Can the police and the Musketeers Agency be trusted to solve this case impartially? Or will we see another case of killer gone free?”

* * * * *

D’Artagnan felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. As he entered the police station, the officers who saw him fell silent. Others looked around to see what had happened, and upon finding d’Artagnan in their midst they stopped talking as well, nudging their neighbors and nodding at him.

D’Artagnan remembered what Zénaide had said -- police officers loved to gossip. He had an inkling as to the subject of their chatter this morning.

He continued to his desk, keeping his head down, feeling the stares on the back of his neck. As he passed through the bullpen, chatter sprang up again behind him.

“They were so good together,” he heard one whisper. He thought that was Detective Matin.

“Shut up,” her partner, Gris, whispered back. “He’s an asshole.”

“D’Artagnan, or the other?”

“Either.”

Was this what Athos had had to endure in the weeks of Milady’s trial?

He determinedly put thoughts of Athos out of his head. Zénaide helped -- she looked up from her book as he sat heavily at his desk, and said, “So how about the match last night?”

He choked on a laugh and buried his head in his arms. “Thanks,” he said to the desktop. “That’s going to be the only sensible thing I’m asked all day.”

“Seriously though, did you watch it?”

“No, I didn’t watch the match.” D’Artagnan knew his voice was muffled, but he didn’t have enough energy to raise his head. “I was too busy crying into my ice cream.”

“Sorry about that.” Zénaide sounded slightly guilty. “I was kind of gloating.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “You were right anyway.”

Another voice sounded behind him. “Oh, erm, d’Artagnan…” He sat up. Clarice was hovering behind his chair again. “I wanted to ask, is the breakup… is it done this time?”

D’Artagnan snorted. “This time. Yeah, it’s done.”

“Oh, alright, then.” Clarice whipped out a Tupperware container of brownies from behind her back. “In that case, help yourself to a brownie. I handmade these this time! Oh, and I’m so sorry to hear about it. Again.”

“Right,” said d’Artagnan. “I’m not really in the mood for brownies right now.”

“Oh, but take one for later--”

“I said no!”

He’d said it too loud; the station quieted again. D’Artagnan felt exposed and jumpy, like a live wire.

“No, thank you, Clarice,” he said politely. “Now go away, please.”

“Well, I never!” said Clarice. She snapped the Tupperware shut and turned on her heel.

“Nice,” said Zénaide, watching Clarice go. “I wanted a brownie.”

“Shove it up your ass,” d’Artagnan muttered. He barely had time to cringe at her furious glare before a hand was at his collar, pulling him out of his seat.

“Sir,” he said in protest, twisting out of Rochefort’s hold.

“Copy these files,” Rochefort said, ignoring d’Artagnan’s protest and shoving a pile of documents into d’Artagnan’s hands. “I don’t have time to do it.”

 _You mean you forgot how_ , d’Artagnan thought, but didn’t say. Out loud, he said, “Sure,” and took the papers. Without looking at Zénaide, he headed for the copier.

Halfway there, he saw a familiar figure standing at the copier with his back to d’Artagnan. His heart jumped in his chest at the leather coat, then settled when he realized that it was the wrong shade.

Aramis ruffled his own hair absently and sent another page through the copier.

D’Artagnan stopped in his tracks and looked back at Rochefort. The detective had his arms crossed, and he was watching d’Artagnan keenly. D’Artagnan looked around and saw that, amidst the usual low-level chaos of the bullpen, a few other detectives were watching him as well. They were obviously eager to see how d’Artagnan would react to one of Athos’ cohorts.

D’Artagnan raised his chin and stalked the rest of the way to the copier.

The machine was crammed into a small, doorless alcove between the conference rooms and the holding cells. D’Artagnan pushed his way into the small space and slapped his files down on a box of printer paper.

“I’m next,” he said.

Aramis glanced at him. “All right.”

D’Artagnan crossed his arms. He realized he was being defensive and uncrossed them.

Aramis fed another piece of paper into the machine.

D’Artagnan crossed his arms again. “Can’t you hurry up?”

“These are important documents. Ones I’m not allowed to remove from the building.” D’Artagnan noticed the Interpol name stamped on each of the folders. “You may remember,” Aramis continued pleasantly, “that we have a small matter of an escaped thief on our hands.”

“That wasn’t our fault.”

“Did I say it was?” Aramis slid another stack of files into the tray. “I only meant that we have a time-sensitive case. I’m sure you can find something else to do for five minutes while I use the copier.”

“Maybe I would, if your agency didn’t steal all my cases!” D’Artagnan stepped closer to Aramis. He dropped his voice. “I didn’t know you were going to take the Forgeron case, I had to deal with that--”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said sharply. He raised his head, and his hair almost brushed d’Artagnan’s face. D’Artagnan realized how close they were. He remembered himself and stepped back, glancing at the bullpen. More officers had taken notice.

He raised his voice. “Maybe if you left any of our cases for us, I’d have something else to do besides copy files.”

“Maybe you would have cases if you were anything but an intern,” said Aramis coolly. His eyes were narrowed, but they stayed on his files.

“That’s not my fault.”

“No.” Aramis finally turned fully toward d’Artagnan, leaving the copier alone. “Neither is it Athos’ fault that his ex-wife is murdering people again. Yet you blamed him.”

“He was the one blaming us!”

“‘Us,’ d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, us. I’m a policeman, and don’t forget it.”

Aramis’ cutting gaze took in d’Artagnan’s uniform. “Oh, I won’t be forgetting.” He turned back to the copier. “It’s good to know which side you’ve taken, d’Artagnan.”

“That’s right.” D’Artagnan set his shoulders and walked away, leaving the files Rochefort had given him where they lay.

He turned toward the station door at the sound of a shouted string of wild curses.

Two uniforms were holding a cuffed teen between them. The teen was the one yelling, barely taking the time to breathe between insulting one officer’s mother and then the other’s ancestors.

“She was rolling a blunt right on the steps of the precinct,” one of the officers said to the receptionist, Jeanette, over the teen’s inventive comments. She shook her head. “Can you believe that? She was just asking for an arrest.”

“All that weed must have addled her brain,” the other officer agreed.

“I ain’t so addled I can’t hear you, miss officer,” said the teen. She lolled her head back, trying to see the other officer as he scribbled a check-in time for her. “What’re you cops going to do to me, huh? I heard about the torture stuff you do. Torture dungeons and shit. I hear cops are really kinky.” She looked at the officer holding her cuffs. “Are you into kinky shit, miss officer?”

“That’s Officer Pinat to you,” the officer said, unfazed. Pinat began to tow the teen in the direction of the holding cells.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you cops,” the teen said. She raised her voice. “Hey, where are you taking me? I’m gonna sue you! Where’re you taking me, huh? What if I die of antha -- anapalaphtic shock? What if I have a heart attack? I could have a preexisting condition, you know!”

She began to pull at the cuffs, struggling to escape Pinat’s grip. “Let go of me!” she screamed. She twisted around, growing red in the face. “Lemme go! You buncha shit pigs, let me go!”

D’Artagnan was already across the room. “Hey!” he shouted.

“Assistance isn’t required--” Pinat began.

D’Artagnan was already up in the teen’s face. “You don’t disrespect the officers here!”

“Fuck you!” she screamed.

D’Artagnan pushed her. She stumbled back, wide-eyed. He snarled. “Shut up, you--”

“Holy shit!” Pinat let go of the teen and grabbed at d’Artagnan. “What the fuck are you doing? You don’t touch civilians. Back away, intern.”

Someone grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm and hauled him away from Pinat. “What are you thinking,” Constance hissed in d’Artagnan’s ear. She dragged him over to her desk. “That’s the fastest way to a lawsuit.”

D’Artagnan pulled free of her grip as soon as they reached her desk. “She was badmouthing the department.”

“That’s what arestees do, d’Artagnan.”

Constance was keeping her voice down, but d’Artagnan raised his. “Well, we shouldn’t have to put up with it. We do our job. She broke the law.”

Constance snorted. “Oh, like she’s going to see it so clearly. Grow up, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan flinched.

Constance looked at someone behind d’Artagnan. “You take him,” she said. “You’re responsible for him this week. I can’t deal with him right now.” She threw up her hands and stormed away.

D’Artagnan turned and found Rochefort, looking bored. “What,” d’Artagnan spat.

Rochefort tilted his head at the door. “Come.”

D’Artagnan followed him out of the door and down the steps of the precinct. Rochefort kept walking.

“Where are we going?” d’Artagnan asked.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Rochefort led him to a small pub a block away. He ordered a glass of wine for himself, picking over the labels and names while d’Artagnan fidgeted, and pale lager for d’Artagnan.

They settled at a table. Rochefort took a sip of his wine. D’Artagnan went for a mouthful of his beer and found himself gulping it.

Rochefort watched him guzzle his drink. “As your temporary supervisor, I should inquire as to your mental state.”

D’Artagnan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sure know how to make a guy feel looked after.”

“I know how your mental state stands.”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes. “Do you?”

“Of course. Unbalanced, unsure, immature.”

“Don’t hold back on account of my feelings.”

“You’re young and you’ve recently been through a number of traumatic experiences. It stands to reason that you should feel adrift. Would you like to…” Rochefort visibly gritted his teeth. “Talk about it?”

D’Artagnan stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

Rochefort smiled a rather sickly smile. “As your temporary supervisor, I should ask--”

D’Artagnan waved it aside. “Yeah, I get it.” He took a gulp of his drink. He set the glass down and shifted it minutely. Rochefort took a sip of his wine.

D’Artagnan burst out, “It’s just really hard, you know? He’s mostly the reason why I came to Paris, and now I’m on the lowest rung at work, with no boyfriend, and all his friends are taking his side, and my family’s farm is going under, and my father’s killer might gain parole, and it’s just--” He broke off and drank deeply, though not enough to hide the tears in his eyes.

Rochefort cleared his throat. “You’re young. The sting of heartbreak will fade.”

“That’s what everyone says about young people in love. But it was real.”

Rochefort shook his head at his wine glass.

D’Artagnan caught it. “What?”

“A person like that Athos -- you’re better off without him. He’s the kind of person who wouldn’t give a shit for anyone who isn’t his peer.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “His peer?”

“Another wealthy heir to a noble family.”

“Oh. Like you.”

“The opposite, in fact. I have the name, but no wealth. My family’s money ran dry generations ago.” Rochefort shrugged one shoulder. “The name still carries weight. However, to men like Athos, both reputation and family money determine worth.” He cast d’Artagnan a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, you have neither.”

“Oh, come on,” said d’Artagnan, gesturing sloppily with his glass. “You talk about your Porsche all the time. And, and how to take proper care of golf clubs. And, y’know, rich guy stuff.”

“Cops and stock markets are not mutually exclusive,” said Rochefort dryly.

D’Artagnan giggled, then looked at his mostly-empty glass suspiciously. “Where’d that go?”

“Where it usually does, I suppose.”

“Ha.” D’Artagnan saluted Rochefort with the glass and drained the rest. He set it down and belched, satisfied. “I haven’t had a good beer for… ages. Months, now.” He grew melancholy, drawing patterns in the condensation on the glass. “Athos wouldn’t let me.”

Rochefort signalled for another lager for d’Artagnan and raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t let you?”

“Well, he let me. But there’d always be this, this _look_ on his face. Like _he_ was disappointed in _me_. Even though _he_ was the drunk.” D’Artagnan laughed without humor. “What a fucking hypocrite. He told me to forget about LaBarge, y’know. My Papa’s murderer,” he added. Rochefort nodded. “Told me to forget about the man who ruined my life. Let the law run its course. And then he goes and chases after Milady. Why does he get to do that? Because it’s his pain and not mine?” He gestured expansively to illustrate the injustice of it all.

“Sounds like he has trouble following his own advice.”

“Oh, yeah. And more than that, he’s always talking about the law and then he tells me all these stories about how the law failed his clients so they go to him. Like, why should I follow the letter, the absolute _letter_ of the law,” d’Artagnan jabbed a finger into the table to highlight his point, “when it doesn’t work, and then we get yelled at anyway?”

He pointed at Rochefort. “You were right. Being a cop is just a hard... roil.”

“I believe I said ‘toil’.”

“Yeah, that. If we have to toil so much, we should get to make better rules to toil for.”

“That’s a job for the lawyers and politicians.”

“No,” said d’Artagnan adamantly. “It’s a job for us. Because we’re the ones on the streets, you know? Arresting people and solving shit. So we should get to have our own rules.”

“Bend the law, you mean?” Rochefort’s strange, pale eyes fixed on d’Artagnan’s.

D’Artagnan hesitated. “No,” he said slowly. “But, like, making our own rules. ‘Cause the ones we have don’t work for us.”

“You don’t know the right rules, d’Artagnan,” said Rochefort. “They’re out there. You just have to look for them.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “What d’you mean?”

Rochefort took a sip of his wine. “It’s all about knowing the right people with the right tricks. Once you know the right lawyer, you have fines and warrants for possession seizures. Once you have a prosecutor, you can discredit your witnesses. It’s all completely legal. But you need to know how to play the game. Once you do, you win every time.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth hung open. “Can you really do that?”

“Of course. Anything’s possible with the right connections.” Rochefort leaned forward. “Connections are what you’re in need of. With that scene at the precinct, people will start to think ill of you. It’s time you made some good friends.”

“What, like who?”

“Like me,” Rochefort said mildly. “Don’t underestimate what I’d do for my friends.”

D’Artagnan stared at him, then laughed abruptly. “Sure! Friends.” He extended a hand. Rochefort shook it.

“You know, I thought you were an asshole,” d’Artagnan said thoughtfully. “But you’re okay.”

Rochefort smiled, quick and thin and gone in a flash. “I’m glad that I hold your esteem.” He rose from the table. “Enjoy the lager. My treat. Rest up; we have our case to work on tomorrow.”

“See ya,” d’Artagnan said. “Thanks for the drink.”

Rochefort left d’Artagnan in the dim pub and began walking for the third arrondissement.

* * * * *

Milady peered at the computer screen. Her slim fingers tapped the keyboard thoughtfully for a moment, and then she entered a keystroke in a swift movement. The computer whirred, processing her coding, and then beeped.

She sat back, satisfied. That was Athos’ computer done. She had considered cloning the computers of his cohorts, but had dismissed it. The Spaniard and the overgrown street rat were Athos’ followers; they would go where he told them. All she needed to know about the Musketeers Agency’s investigation would be on Athos’ computer.

The figure leaning against the doorjamb cleared his throat pointedly.

Milady took her time lifting her hands from the keyboard and turning to face the door. She tossed her hair.“Well?”

“The honeymoon is certainly over. The whole department is talking about the breakup. D’Artagnan himself won’t shut up about it.”

“So it’s authentic,” Milady confirmed.

“As far as I can tell.”

“Good. That makes my job easier. As for the two-day timeline… Some details will have to be tweaked, but the ultimate goal is unchanged. Perhaps the party at the de Larroque estate…” She swept the thought away for now. “What else?”

“The boy has a temper. He went off on a suspect today. Everyone was watching.”

Milady smiled. “Very good. And you have him under your thumb?”

“Oh, he trusts me.”

Milady nodded. “Keep it that way.”

She turned back to her computer in clear dismissal.

She typed a few more lines, feeling the eyes on her. She lasted a minute. “What now?”

Rochefort pushed off the doorjamb in a lazy, sinuous movement. He stepped closer to her like a pale cat stalking its prey. “Didn’t you summon me, your highness?”

“Watch your tone. I’ve put men down for less.”

“I’m not those gutter-crawlers you’ve dealt with in the past. I’m a different breed.”

“You’re exactly like them.” Milady sat still, the straight-backed computer chair suddenly a cell. The parts of her body nearest to Rochefort prickled, tensing in readiness for defense. “The same over-ambition, the same greed. The same pride.”

He came to stop behind her and bent to her ear. He laughed, low and mocking. A puff of hot breath skittered across her neck. “It’s your pride, too, _milady_. You made your crown out of stolen titles, but I know what you really are, where you came from. You still stink of the streets. Believe me, I wouldn’t be working with you but that it aligns with my own interests.”

Milady touched the point of her dagger, so gently, to his ribs. There was heady victory in the way he abruptly stilled.

“You work for me,” Milady said. “I conducted this operation. I set up the bugs. I researched the Musée and stole the dies. You did nothing. You need me to hide your pitiful tracks.”

There was silence in the small apartment.

Then Rochefort said, “And you chase your petty revenge. You couldn’t put me down, Milady. You need me.”

He reached -- Milady thought he reached for her breast, but he leaned further over her and stretched his hand out to the keyboard. Milady could feel his stomach lean into the knifepoint, pressing against the deadly edge.

Milady kept the dagger steady, waiting for him to call off the game of chicken, but the skin under the blade began to give and she withdrew her hand with a flick.

He chuckled and turned his face into her hair, inhaling deeply. She was boxed in: the chair’s armrests, the high back, his arm across her torso and his mouth inches away from her neck. The hand clutching the dagger lay uselessly in her lap.

He tapped a key and brought up the video footage of Athos pacing to and fro in his apartment.

“Shall I give you my report, my lady?” said Rochefort. “About your ex-husband and his poor, heartbroken ex-lover?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out for Athos. Meanwhile, d'Artagnan's buddy cop adventures with Rochefort go sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: police brutality; drug mention.

Milady’s listening device registered the door of the Musketeers Agency opening with a jingle at six forty-five a.m. There followed the sounds of a person shuffling into the room.

The noises paused.

“Athos,” said Porthos. “Have you been here all night?”

There was a grunt, as of someone jerked from sleep. Something slid to the floor. A curse from Athos.

Porthos dumped something -- a backpack, from the sound of the material -- on his desk. He said, “This isn’t good for you.”

Athos grunted.

“Come on,” said Porthos firmly. “We’re going for breakfast.”

“Can’t eat.”

“Don’t care. Let’s go.”

Athos huffed. Scuffing across the floor. The door jingled.

The office was silent.

The listening device waited patiently for two minutes. When it registered no more sound, it shut down, and waited.

* * * * *

Porthos glanced at Athos out of the corner of his eye. Athos was wan, almost sickly-looking. The circles under his eyes stood out in painful relief. His clothes -- the ones he’d been wearing the previous day -- were rumpled and stained.

Athos was silent as Porthos guided him out of the agency. He let himself be nudged up the sidewalk, around a corner and up a side street, without seeming to care for their destination.

Porthos drew breath to speak a few times before rethinking and closing his mouth. Athos obviously noticed, but said nothing. He didn’t look at Porthos.

They came across a street vendor selling roasted chestnuts. Better than nothing, Porthos figured. He motioned for Athos to wait while Porthos paid the woman and accepted a bag of hot chestnuts.

When Porthos turned from the stall, Athos was exactly where Porthos had left him. He stood as still as a statue, with a statue’s apathetic mein. There was no urge for motion in his expression, but neither was there patience. All want had left him, and had left only the cold, hard diamond of weary pursuit.

Porthos’ heart broke for the look on Athos’ face -- the look Porthos had once thought he’d seen the last of. He put a hand to Athos’ back and guided him further up the street.

They could hear jackhammers around the corner. Porthos followed the noise and found a construction crew tearing up half the street while frustrated vehicles squeezed by.

Porthos located a bench near the construction area and pointed at it. The noise was nearly deafening this close to the machines.

Athos understood immediately. He made a beeline for the bench and slumped onto it. His shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. He tipped his head up to the grey skies. The circles under his eyes were even darker, but the worry lines around his eyes were smoothing out.

Porthos sat next to Athos and wordlessly offered the bag of chestnuts. Athos took one.

It took half a minute of chewing before Athos remembered why he hated roasted chestnuts. He shot a look at Porthos. Porthos wordlessly let Athos know that Athos would eat it, and he’d like it.

Pedestrians, all on their way to work, hurried by, eager to leave the cold, cloudy morning for the warmth of their offices. Last night’s dusting of snow was trampled to wet puddles. Porthos kept an eye on the crowd, but no one paid them any attention.

Porthos waited until Athos had choked down the chestnut before asking what he’d brought them both here to ask. He had to nearly shout over the noise.

“Can you do this?”

Athos paused in removing bits of chestnut from his teeth to slide his eyes over to Porthos.

“If you can’t,” Porthos continued, “I’ll tell Treville.”

Athos’ hand shot out to Porthos’ arm, as if Athos feared he would stand up this second and head straight for the precinct. “No!”

Porthos laid his hand over Athos’ in silent reassurance. But he said, “I mean it. You’re wearing yourself out--” he jabbed a finger at Athos’ face as evidence-- “and if it’s too much, I’ll get Treville to pull you off the case.”

“I’ll be fine,” Athos says, in a curt shout. “I can rest once this is all over.”

“There are other ways to catch her. Interpol is just waiting to step in.”

Athos only shook his head. He dropped his hand from Porthos’ arm and leaned back -- away from Porthos. Porthos felt the loss keenly.

Athos leaned forward again, just close enough to be heard clearly. “It will be worth it,” he said. “Once we catch her. It will all be worth it.” And he touched his knuckles gently to the wooden bench beneath him. 

Porthos closed his teeth around the question that begged to be asked -- _At what cost to yourself?_

He rummaged in his pocket for a folded piece of paper. “Aramis found this in his pocket yesterday,” he said, handing it to Athos.

Athos unfolded the note. Porthos watched his eyes turn soft, like those of a wounded animal.

Athos pressed a fist against his mouth. “He…”

“Yeah,” Porthos said softly.

Athos raised his head and fixed Porthos with a steely, determined expression. “It will be worth it,” he said firmly. “It will be worth all of this. I only need to catch her.”

* * * * *

“Hey, have you seen my handcuffs?”

Zénaide looked up from her phone, deliberately slow. “What’s that?”

“Have you seen my handcuffs?” D’Artagnan rooted around his desk for his spare pair.

“I’m surprised they weren’t taken away with your badge,” Zénaide said evenly. She bent her head back down to her phone and flicked the screen with her thumb. She was the very picture of cold, restrained fury.

D’Artagnan sputtered. “They -- I -- my badge wasn’t taken away.”

“It should have been.”

D’Artagnan found his voice after a second of staring at Zénaide’s bent head. “I did exactly what everyone else should’ve done.”

Zénaide’s head shot up and she glared at d’Artagnan. “You’re my friend, so I’ll give you some leeway. But you do that again, and I’d consider you a bad cop. Hitting a handcuffed suspect, d’Artagnan?” She rose out of her chair and advanced on him. “Abuse. Of. Power.”

“Hey, that not fair--” d’Artagnan began weakly.

“What’s not fair is that you haven’t been given some time off the force,” said Zénaide.

Rochefort appeared at d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “What’s going on here?”

Zénaide looked between the two of them. “I see how it is,” she said to d’Artagnan. She tossed her head and turned to Rochefort. “Nothing, sir.”

“Good.” Rochefort eyes Zénaide for a long moment. Her face hardened as his eyes swept her from department-approved shoes to bushy, natural hair.

He dismissed her with a nod and turned to d’Artagnan. “Get your gear together. We’ve got a case.”

* * * * *

Athos swept into the lobby of the Pavillon de la Reine. Aramis and Porthos flanked him, each warily scouting half of the grand, marble-floored lobby.

Athos approached the wide reception counter and showed the receptionist his credentials. Before he could introduce himself, she had plucked them out of his hands and held them up to her bifocals. She peered at the official seal of the police department and sniffed disdainfully at the private investigator’s license.

Finally, she returned them and said, “The Pavillon de la Reine prides itself in discretion and confidentiality regarding its guests.”

“Of course,” said Athos, cutting her off. “However, one of your guests is a murderer and a thief.”

Aramis hip-checked Athos out of the way and leaned on the counter. He flashed a grin at the receptionist. “Please excuse my friend,” he said. “He’s quite high-strung. I am Aramis d’Herblay,” he gave a little bow, “of the Musketeers Agency. My associates and I are in pursuit of a very dangerous individual. I’m sure you can see how assisting us would really be protecting the safety of your guests.”

Porthos leaned forward. “We assure you, ma’am, we’ll be very discreet.” He winked at her.

The receptionist blinked. A pink flush spread up her neck. “Well, if you promise,” she said to Porthos.

“Of course.”

Aramis cleared his throat. “If you could look up the guest staying under the name ‘M. Leferre,” he prompted.

The receptionist didn’t spare him a glance. She fumbled for the computer and, sneaking glances at a still-smiling Porthos, typed in the name.

“Oh! Yes, the woman in the penthouse suite.” She swiped a card through a key-reader and handed it to Porthos. “That should open the door of the suite. Should I ask one of the staff to accompany you?”

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you…”

She flushed again. “Sabrina. My name’s Sabrina.”

Porthos took her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Thank you, Sabrina.”

The elevator dinged pointedly. Aramis held the gold-plated elevator door open and coughed loudly. Porthos winked at Sabrina again and jogged to the elevator.

“I can’t believe you hooked another one with one sentence,” Aramis grumbled. The doors shut and the elevator began to rise.

“It’s pure charisma,” said Porthos. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I especially put that new gel in my hair today,” said Aramis, hurt. “How could she ignore the hair?” He stroked a hand over his hair and examined his wavy reflection in the shiny, golden interior of the elevator.

“She likes the natural look,” said Porthos. “Good judge of character, that Sabrina.”

“Did she slip you her number?”

Athos cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”

The elevator doors slid open. They fell silent.

The three men drew their weapons. Athos took point; the other two flanked him again.

The short hallway that led to the penthouse suite door was covered in ivy patterns: on the wallpaper, the carpets, even the light sconces. It was a bit dizzying. Athos couldn’t help but feel, as they approached the door, that he was walking into a forest that would snare him in its thick ivy crawlers and would drag him down into the rich earth, where he would molder for eternity.

He shook off the fancy and tested the doorknob. It gave under his hand. He withdrew and motioned to the other two. They nodded.

On Athos’ count, Aramis kicked the door open. Athos cleared the door and went into the room first, covering every corner with his weapon.

The main room was empty, and cold. The windows were open; the curtains billowed, obscuring the furniture.

Athos took the room on the left; Aramis and Porthos took the other rooms on the right.

His room was the bedroom. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its sinfully red sheets mussed as if still warm from a sleeping body. He ignored the bed, and checked the closets and joined bathroom. Nothing.

He holstered his weapon and left the bed, which Anne had so recently lain in, behind him.

Porthos and Aramis were already in the main room. Obviously, Milady had left the hotel room a long time ago. She had emptied the room of everything incriminating. There was nothing left of her, not even her scent.

No -- there was one thing.

Athos picked up a piece of paper that lay on the vanity. It was blank but for a design drawn in thick, blood-red lipstick: the same flower pattern that had been carved into Forgeron’s neck.

* * * * *

Rochefort signed out one of the squad cars. D’Artagnan climbed into the passenger seat and bent in half to run his hands over the floor of the car.

“This isn’t the one we were in before, is it?” he asked, his voice muffled. He straightened. “I, er, misplaced my handcuffs.”

“You can get another pair when we come back.”

D’Artagnan gave up the search and sat back in his seat. “What’s the case?”

“Even with your recent drama, you must remember the case of missing evidence that Captain Treville assigned us not two days ago.”

“I _remember_ ,” d'Artagnan said with dignity. “I just thought we might have a new case.”

“Not with this one.” Rochefort pulled into traffic, cutting off a station wagon and ignoring its honks. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to accept new cases until this case is laid to rest.” He glanced at d’Artagnan. “As your boyfriend took our only other case, we’re stuck with this one until it’s closed.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “And I didn’t know they were going to take it.”

“Of course.” Rochefort concentrated on navigating the narrow Paris streets. After a few moments he said, “I glean from your interaction with that Musketeer yesterday that you aren’t on friendly terms with your ex’s friends.”

D’Artagnan looked out the window. “Not really. They’ve all taken his side. Even Constance, I think.” He cleared his throat. “So, what’s this case, exactly?”

“Oh, a case of mishandled evidence. It happens often enough.”

“And someone has to investigate it every time?”

“Well, no. This is a special case. Once they looked over the logs, it became clear that someone had been taking evidence quite regularly in the past few months. Someone got lazy,” he added, almost to himself.

“So someone’s been taking it from the evidence lockers?”

“Or has failed to accurately record the entire amount taken from a crime scene.”

“Can people really get away with that?”

Rochefort glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Bet it gets lots of money on the black market,” d’Artagnan mused.

“Careful, d’Artagnan,” said Rochefort, a rare and thin smile creeping over his lips. “If that’s the first thought in your head, I may start to think that you’re the culprit.”

D’Artagnan laughed nervously.

Rochefort didn’t laugh.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Where are we going today?”

“The nineteenth arrondissement,” Rochefort said. He spun the wheel and the car sped down a side street. “Specifically, the arcade.”

The arcades of Paris were covered, arched buildings with wide lanes between the shops on either side. In essence, they were malls. In spirit, they were open markets, with neighbor waving to neighbor while patrons strolled arm-in-arm.

The arcades of the nineteenth arrondissement had forgotten that spirit long ago. Over the years, they had become the local meeting places of disreputable businessmen and the local hangouts for teen gangs.

Rochefort parked the squad car in front of the crumbling facade of one such arcade. D’Artagnan peered dubiously at the tattered signs declaring ‘spring sale!’ and ‘new stores opening May 2009!’.

“We’re going to find clues here?” he said. “This doesn’t look like a crime scene. Is this where the evidence came from?”

“It’s where it comes from,” Rochefort answered, and led the way.

D’Artagnan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Aurelia was calling him. Her face glowered up at him, as it already had three times this morning.

As he had the previous three times, he pressed ‘ignore’ and followed Rochefort into the arcade.

* * * * *

“What about Annalaise de Breuil?” Porthos looked between the two files in his hands. “Yeah, here -- the name comes up three times in the Interpol records.” They were back in the agency office, with the guts of the Interpol files spread out on the desks between them. Athos manned the computer.

“That means she’s used it more often,” Aramis pointed out. He was perched on the edge of his desk. “She probably wouldn’t use it again.” He peered at another stack of files. “What about Ana Broden? Athos?”

Athos typed the name into the agency’s computer. “Nothing.”

“Hmm. Are you sure you’re checking the roster for all the flights?”

“Yes, it’s right here. I have the complete file that the airport sent us.”

“Let’s go through it.” Aramis dragged his chair closer to the screen. “How many people are passing through Roissy today?”

Athos scrolled through the passenger list. “From what I can tell… more than two hundred thousand passengers.”

Aramis deflated. “Well,” he said helplessly.

Athos typed the name into the search bar once again, with no result. He tried four other names on Milady’s Interpol records. No such names existed on the passenger list.

“Hey,” said Porthos. “Why’re we focusing on Roissy? Why not the smaller airports?”

Athos looked over. “Orly, do you think?”

“No -- Le Bourget. Private planes. It’s a rich-people airport. Seems right up her alley, right?”

“Of course,” Athos breathed. He scrabbled for the computer file of the roster of Paris-Le Bourget Airport. It was smaller than that of the others; only eight hundred passengers daily.

“I don’t see any Annas,” said Aramis after a minute of scrolling. “There’s an Annabelle -- I’ll check that out.”

“Hold on,” Porthos said suddenly. “Go back. What’s that name?” He pointed to a ‘Nae Faredele.’

“I don’t see…” Athos trailed off. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s an anagram,” said Porthos. “Nae -- Ane? Could’ve used another ‘n’ -- Faredele. De la Fere.”

Aramis sucked in a breath. “Look when her flight was.”

They followed his finger across the columns.

“An hour ago,” Porthos murmured. “Athos…”

“I want the security video,” Athos said tightly. “I won’t believe it’s not another trick until I see her leaving.”

* * * * *

The tired lanes of the arcade stretched nearly out of sight. Other, smaller halls branched off of the main arch. Huddles of teenagers in hoodies congregated at the corners of such junctions. They eyed Rochefort and d’Artagnan as the policemen strolled past.

Teenage shrieks and laughter spiked as they passed a gaggle of girls holding bags from the local cheap jewelry store. Store owners called out deals and encouragement to passersby.

Rochefort nodded to one of the groups of teenage boys. Most of them were black; a few wore turbans under their hoods. “They’re trading bags.”

“What, cocaine?”

“Keep your voice down. Look how they’re standing.”

As d’Artagnan watched, two members of the group casually shook hands and tucked their hands back into their sweatshirt pockets. “Should we arrest them?”

Rochefort tsked. “And have a riot on our hands? No, there’s no point in rushing a fight. We’ll wait until one of them leaves.”

He strolled further down the lane. D’Artagnan followed, resisting the urge to peek back at the group.

The distant sounds of feet slapping the old stones echoed off the arched ceilings. An adult called a child’s name, once and then again more insistently. A mother passed Rochefort and d’Artagnan with a sleeping child in a stroller. She kept her eyes averted.

“This place is pretty dismal,” d’Artagnan said.

“That same environment makes for a rich breeding ground.”

D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose. “Breeding ground for what?”

Rochefort turned on his heel and dropped his hand to his weapon. “Freeze!”

The boy who’d been walking behind them froze in mid-step. D’Artagnan recognized him as one of the members of the hoodie group. He couldn’t be older than thirteen, with wide dark eyes and light brown skin.

“You’ve been following us,” Rochefort accused.

“No I haven’t--”

“Is that a weapon?” Rochefort drew his own weapon and pointed it at the boy. “Against the wall, now!”

“I’m not carrying a weap--”

Rochefort let go of his gun with one hand and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. He spun him around forcefully and pushed him into the wall. The boy protested loudly.

“Shut up, or I’ll put one through your spine for resisting arrest,” d’Artagnan heard Rochefort hiss. The boy stilled and fell silent.

Rochefort holstered his weapon and patted the boy down. D’Artagnan thought he saw the boy wince as Rochefort delivered forceful pats to his stomach through the boy’s baggy sweatshirt.

“What’s this?” Rochefort withdrew a crackly, opaque plastic bag from the boy’s hoodie pocket.

“That ain’t mine,” the boy said quickly.

Rochefort boxed the boy against the wall. He lowered his head to the boy’s ear. “Do you know what a sentence for dealing powder will get you? Do you know how long they’ll leave you in jail for?”

“I wasn’t dealing it,” the boy said. His voice wavered and his chin quivered. “I -- I swear.”

“Then who was?”

The boy clamped his mouth shut.

Rochefort withdrew and reached for his handcuffs; they clinked loudly. “If you’re not going to talk, you’ll have to pay the price.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. Rochefort yanked his arms back. At the first touch of metal on his wrists, the boy yelped. “It wasn’t me! It was Jerome. I swear it wasn’t me.”

Rochefort paused, letting the handcuffs linger. After a long moment he stepped away. The boy stayed frozen against the wall, eyes shut and his mouth screwed up against sobs of shame.

“Very good,” said Rochefort, as if praising a child. “Now run along.”

“You aren’t gonna a-arrest me?”

“Not this time.” Rochefort tucked the bag into his pocket. “And we’ll be keeping this.”

The boy peeled himself off of the wall and turned to Rochefort. “Please don’t tell Jerome I snitched. Please--”

“What did I tell you?” Rochefort demanded. “Run!”

The boy hiccuped and darted between Rochefort and d’Artagnan, running away as fast as his short legs could carry him. D’Artagnan watched him go. The patter of his feet echoed a long way, until they faded into the sounds of the arcade.

Rochefort came up behind d’Artagnan and clapped a hand on d’Artagnan’s neck. He squeezed.

“Do you think I was too harsh, d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan couldn’t shrug with Rochefort’s hand on his neck. He settled for silence.

“Think of it like this: He’s the type of child who grows up into a man like LaBarge. They start as the lowest of the low, and they never change. They only go from one deal to the next, killing and stealing. They hurt people and they don’t care. Isn’t it better to teach them a lesson while they’re young?”

Rochefort’s hand flexed on d’Artagnan’s neck, directing his attention to a teen emerging from a clothing store. He had darker skin than the boy who had just run off. Headphones dangled from around his neck.

“That one, with the blue hoodie,” Rochefort murmured. “He’s just stolen something from the store.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell just by looking at him.”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “Should we arrest him?”

Rochefort let go of d’Artagnan and stepped away. “You do it.”

D’Artagnan looked at Rochefort nervously. “On my own?”

“Do you need me to hold your hand?” Rochefort sneered.

D’Artagnan puffed up. “No!”

“Teach that boy a lesson. What’s the point of being a cop if you don’t do your part to stop trash like that from doing wrong?”

D’Artagnan nodded resolutely. “Right.” He darted over to the blue hoodie without another moment’s hesitation. “Hey, you!”

The teen in the hoodie took one look at him and dropped his bag. He raised his hands. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Forget it, we know you shoplifted from that store.”

“I didn’t.”

“We saw you do it,” d’Artagnan lied.

The teen, with his hands still in the air, raised his eyebrows. “How could you see me do that through the wall of the store, sir?”

D’Artagnan was losing the argument. “Get against the wall.” When the teen didn’t move, d’Artagnan rushed at him.

Rochefort had spun his druggie against the wall; d’Artagnan only managed a clumsy shove.

The teen laughed. “Are you even trying, man?" 

“Shut up!” D’Artagnan shoved him again. The teen’s cheek collided with the wall, and he groaned.

Rochefort spoke from behind d’Artagnan. “You forgot one thing.” D’Artagnan turned and saw him lazily regarding the teen. “You didn’t frisk him.”

He held out the confiscated bag of cocaine.

D’Artagnan stared at it. He locked eyes with Rochefort. “I don’t…?”

Rochefort raised an eyebrow. “You’ll want to search him very thoroughly. He might have illegal substances on his person.”

The teen groaned again, working his jaw. “I don’t have substances.”

D’Artagnan stared blankly at the bag. “Huh?”

Rochefort sighed and beckoned for d’Artagnan to move. D'Artagnan hesitantly let go of the teen and backed away.

He watched as Rochefort took his place and began frisking the dazed teen. He tucked his fingers into the boy’s hoodie pocket and withdrew the same bag.

“What’s this?” Rochefort dangled the bag in front of the teen’s face.

“Never seen it before.”

“Then how did it end up in your pocket?”

The teen’s jaw worked as he tried to swallow the obvious answer. He lost the struggle. “You put it there,” he spat. Then he actually did spit; a glob of pink mucus landed on the floor.

Rochefort grabbed the teen’s wrists and twisted them behind his back. The teen cried out. “Telling lies won’t win you any friends. How did this end up in your pocket?”

“I don’t know. It’s not mine.”

Rochefort dropped the teen’s arms and stepped away. “I know you’re lying. But we can come to an agreement: The drugs aren’t yours, and my friend didn’t manhandle you in any way. Got it?”

The teen turned and spat again, defiantly. “Sure,” he said. “Can I go now?”

Rochefort jerked his head. “Leave.”

The teen snatched his shopping bag off the floor. Rochefort blocked his way and held his hand out expectantly.

“Those will stay with us. After all, we know you stole them.”

“The receipt’s in the bag,” the teen said furiously. “I just dropped forty on jeans, I’m not giving--”

“Now,” said Rochefort. His tone promised pain if the teen didn’t comply.

After a long moment, the teen handed over the bag. He started to walk away. He turned around, jogging backwards, and shouted, “I’m gonna report you guys! Fuck you!”

He broke into a run. D’Artagnan started to go after him, but Rochefort pulled him back.

“We have to go after him!” d’Artagnan said wildly.

Rochefort shrugged. “Who’s he going to complain to? You taught him a lesson. Now he won’t sneak around this part of town.”

“Did you hear him?” d’Artagnan hissed. He grabbed Rochefort’s arm. “He said he was going to report us! He saw our name badges!”

“You’re being an idiot,” Rochefort snarled. “Let go of me.”

D’Artagnan let go and strode away. He turned abruptly and paced back to Rochefort. “What do we do?”

Rochefort straightened his cuff. “We do nothing.”

“But--”

Rochefort spoke over him. “ _He_ will do nothing. No one will tell on a cop to other cops. That’s the power of the badge.”

“He said--”

“They always do.”

“They?”

Rochefort eyed d’Artagnan’s panicked, anxious face. “Why do you think I brought you here today?”

D’Artagnan gaped. “I, uh…”

“We’re friends now, aren’t we, d’Artagnan?” Rochefort spread his hands and moved closer. His body language was open and welcoming; his eyes were anything but. “We shook hands, didn’t we?”

“Sure, but--”

“And I told you that you needed to know the right people, didn’t I?”

“I thought you were talking about cops and lawyers.”

“Certainly. Learn to know the obscure laws, and the cops and lawyers will stand behind you.”

“Like what?” D’Artagnan fidgeted nervously. “What if he tells someone?”

“Use your brain,” Rochefort said sharply. “What is a preliminary enquiry?”

“It’s, um, it lets you investigate on the suspicion of a crime, even without evidence.”

“To quote: ‘it is unclear whether a crime, or which crime, has been committed, but there exist good reasons to believe this might be the case.’ If your imagination is keen, you may investigate a suspect for anything.”

“So what? The suspect could still talk!”

“Think! Once you’ve investigated and arrested them, you’ve discredited them and burdened them with financial needs in one stroke.”

“Because they need to pay for lawyers and stuff,” d’Artagnan said, the light dawning.

“Precisely.”

“So you can charge them with anything? What about murder? Too big a lie,” he amended when he saw Rochefort’s look. “How about theft? Or burglary? What else?”

“What did you learn about warrants?”

“Um, that you can serve them to people? With…out evidence?”

“The lack of evidence isn’t the problem.” Rochefort knocked his knuckles against d’Artagnan’s head. “It’s the imagination. Once you believe that you saw a deadly weapon in the suspect’s possession, you can make the judge believe it too. Then the warrant is yours.”

D’Artagnan relaxed. “Oh. So I can do that when that kid reports us.”

Rochefort waved the thought of him away. “He won’t do it. He’s just a small-time crook. Those types are always barking louder than they bite. When the gangs start re-forming, that’s when you take the offensive.”

“The gangs?”

“Usually, the drug commerce is controlled by the Conein gang. Since they were disbanded, the street rats have been trying to fill the gap. They think they’re rising businessmen.” He flashed a sly grin. “They’re only easy pickings.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “The Conein gang? You mean the gang the police department took down? But you helped with that operation.”

Rochefort shrugged elegantly. “You profit from one end, and the other suffers losses. It’s the nature of the game. It’s quite easy to provide misinformation on an elusive gang via ‘anonymous informants.’ The trick is becoming the foremost word on the gang’s movements.”

“You told the captain that the gang was somewhere else?”

“For the most part. In the end, I had to provide a solid lead to stay in his good books. I didn’t expect your Musketeer to take such a nasty spill on that op. Something you must relish in hindsight,” he added with a smirk.

D’Artagnan ignored that remark. “Is that why you helped on the police sting? To get rid of the gang?”

“Oh, no. I attempted to delay the operation as much as I could. The Conein gang was quite agreeable in donating a certain percent of its profits to certain detectives who kept their silence.”

D’Artagnan parsed Rochefort’s fancy wording. “So… they split profits with you? How’d you convince them to do that?”

“I can be quite persuasive,” Rochefort said modestly. “I told you, d’Artagnan: it’s all about knowing the right people.”

He reached out and tucked the bag of stolen cocaine into d’Artagnan’s pocket. “I’m the right kind of person to know. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.”

“My secret?”

“Why, that you assaulted an unarmed teenager, of course. Can you imagine how the news would run with that story?”

D’Artagnan swallowed. “Yes.”

“You have a good imagination, d’Artagnan. You just stick with this--” he tapped the pocket holding the bag-- “and imagine how to spend your first off-record bonus. Let me worry about everything else.”

* * * * *

The surveillance video of the airport terminal was in color. Athos could spot the blush on Milady’s cheeks and the full red of her lipstick, the same shade as on the note left in her hotel room.

She wore a powder-blue power suit and a pair of dark sunglasses, for all the world looking like a particularly fashionable businesswoman on her way to an international meeting. In fact, she looked like any other of the airport’s elite clientele.

At some signal -- the video lacked audio -- Milady stood gracefully and walked to the gate, towing her small carry-on suitcase behind her.

Just before she disappeared into the gateway, Milady looked directly at the camera.

Athos felt a chill run down his spine.

 _“Bye-bye,”_ Milady mouthed.

And she was gone.

Athos paused the video. The airport terminal hung on screen in terrible stillness.

Aramis slowly settled in the chair next to Athos’ seat. “I’m sorry, Athos,” he said.

“Don’t,” Athos warned.

“Maybe it’s for the best--”

“Don’t!” Athos snapped. “There can be no rest while she’s still free.”

“Athos, there’s nothing you can do. We don’t have jurisdiction outside of Paris.”

Athos clenched his fist. “Then I’ll have to wait until she comes back.”

“Comes back? Why would she return?”

Athos shook his head. “She wouldn’t,” he said quickly. “Never mind.”

Aramis hesitated. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Listen, maybe it’s time you focused on other things. Ninon’s party is tonight, remember? You should go. It’ll take your mind off all this.”

“I’d rather not.”

“How about patching things up with d’Arta--”

Athos nearly vaulted out of his seat. “Don’t talk about him!”

Aramis held his hands up. “Okay, I won’t. Just, take care of yourself, yeah?”

Athos turned back to the computer screen. “It’s nearly five o’clock. You should go.”

“Are you sure?”

Athos caught Aramis’ eye and nodded. “Go.”

Aramis hesitated, and then squeezed Athos’ shoulder. “Come on, Porthos.” He scooped up his bag and headed for the door.

Porthos hesitated.

Athos looked at him. “Go,” he repeated.

Porthos strode forward and scooped Athos into a hug.

Athos buried his face in Porthos’ shoulder, clinging to Porthos’ jacket like a child. He felt his eyes prickling. He hadn’t been held since he and d’Artagnan had lain intertwined on the couch, the night of their first fight…

He broke away. Porthos let go of him and cleared his throat.

“See you tomorrow,” Porthos said. 

And then he followed Aramis out of the door, and Athos was left alone in the office. The corners of the room seemed darker; the fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder.

Athos turned back to the computer. He unfolded the piece of paper that Aramis had found in his pocket after his confrontation with d’Artagnan. He traced the hastily scrawled message: 

_< 3_

Athos looked at the text message heart for another long moment. Then he tore the paper into strips, and the strips into pieces; and the pieces he crumbled and dropped into the trashcan.

He hit the play button again.

For long minutes, it was only him and the blank airport terminal. Only the sound of his rough breathing filled the office.

A movement from the screen.

A stewardess emerged from the gate. She carried a small bag under her arm. She was wearing a cap, but it didn’t completely hide the dark curls or the runway-ready makeup.

Athos would know that walk anywhere. He would know the tilt of that nose from a mile away; he would know every dark strand of hair that escaped from under the cap.

After all, she had once been his wife.

* * * * *

Milady’s listening bug flashed placidly in its hiding spot as the storm raged above Treville’s desk.

“What do you mean, she left the country? Good God, Aramis! I don’t care how many steps you took. You were obviously out of line to exclude the entire police force from your investigation! You lost precious manpower. And for what? Athos’ pride? I’m telling you, I’m not having it anymore! I’m ending your contract with the precinct!”

The phone slammed down on the desk.

Treville sighed. “Christ.”

After a long moment, he picked up the phone again. Treville cleared his throat. “Hello, madame mayor…”

* * * * *

D’Artagnan hovered uncertainly by his desk. Zénaide had seen him coming back from patrol with Rochefort and had deliberately gotten up and moved to sit with a group of interns. D’Artagnan wistfully watched them all chat and procrastinate on filing reports. Zénaide had her feet up on someone’s desk, the way she used to on d’Artagnan’s desk just to tease him.

Rochefort was sitting at his own desk. D’Artagnan shuffled over there and stood awkwardly until Rochefort noticed him.

“What?” Rochefort asked without looking up.

“I was wondering if there’s anything else for us to do, sir.”

“Not right now.” Rochefort smirked. “Don’t your playmates want to play?”

“They don’t like me very much right now.”

“I wonder why.” Rochefort capped his pen and sighed. “If you’re going to stand here uselessly until I find something for you to do, we may as well give our report to the captain.”

“Sure,” d’Artagnan said eagerly. “Wait -- what are we going to say?”

“Leave that to me.” Rochefort stood up. He arranged a pile of report files and carried it over a few desks to where Constance sat.

She frowned a little when she saw d’Artagnan behind Rochefort. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a meeting with Treville,” Rochefort said. “Finish these up and bring them in when you’re done, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Constance stiffened. “I’m not your sweetheart, Rochefort.”

“That’s _Detective_ Rochefort.”

“That’s Head Detective Bonacieux, detective!” she snapped.

Rochefort put his hands up and backed away. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t realize it was that time of the month. Women,” he said to d’Artagnan. “I can see why you turned gay.”

D’Artagnan didn’t think it was a good teaching opportunity regarding pansexuality. “That was pretty sexist,” he said.

Rochefort laughed. “Have they been sending you to the sensitivity trainings? Come on. Treville’s office.”

Five minutes later, d’Artagnan was concentrating on keeping his jaw from dropping as Rochefort spun his tale of suspects, clues, evidence collected, and leads chased. From what he told Captain Treville, they must have spent the day running around the whole of Paris like some kind of Holmes-and-Watson team.

Captain Treville seemed to be eating it up. He listened with his chin on his folded hands, nodding very seriously and asking questions that Rochefort deflected without blinking an eye.

“It sounds like solid progress has been made,” he said, when Rochefort finally came to a finish. “Do you have a report filed?”

“Head Detective Bonacieux volunteered to finish them for me,” Rochefort said, in a bald-faced lie.

“Good, good. I’m glad to hear that you’re fostering positive relationships between yourself and other staff.”

A knock came on the door; a second later Constance came in.

“I have Rochefort’s report, sir,” she said, laying the file on Captain Treville’s desk. She turned to glare at Rochefort in a way that the captain couldn’t see.

“Thank you, Bonacieux,” said Captain Treville absently. “And you?” He addressed d’Artagnan, who straightened. “How are you liking this case?”

“Um, very well, sir.”

“D’Artagnan is learning very fast,” said Rochefort. He clapped d’Artagnan on the back -- quite a bit lower than d’Artagnan would have liked. “He apprehended a suspect single-handedly. I was on the premises, of course, but he took initiative and--”

“What’s that?” Constance asked suddenly. “D’Artagnan, what just fell out of your pocket?”

D’Artagnan looked down. On the floor lay the bag of cocaine that Rochefort had taken from their suspect earlier that day.

He bent and snatched it up. “Nothing,” he said quickly. The bag crinkled loudly.

Constance rounded Rochefort and grabbed d’Artagnan’s wrist as he tried to slip the bag back into his pocket. “Is this what I think it is?”

“I was going to file it,” d’Artagnan said desperately. “It’s evidence--”

“You can’t go walking around with this in your pocket, d’Artagnan!” she said shrilly.

“What’s going on?” Treville had risen from his chair.

“D’Artagnan’s been holding back evidence, sir,” said Constance. She twisted d’Artagnan’s wrist and he opened his hand on reflex.

The bag fell to the ground again. Constance stooped and snatched it up. She held the bag up to the light.

D’Artagnan cringed. “Sir, I haven’t-- I wasn’t--”

“When did you steal this, then?” Constance snapped.

“Both of you, quiet,” said Treville. “D’Artagnan?”

“I was going to file it as evidence, I swear.”

“Unless it was taken from a suspect twenty minutes ago, there’s no reason for you to have it now,” said Treville. “That falls under either personal possession or withholding evidence, and neither is looking good for you.”

‘Sir, please believe me, I--” Treville’s face was impassive. He turned to Constance. “Constance, I didn’t mean--”

Constance’s face hardened. “It’s Head Detective Bonacieux to you.”

Treville straightened and sent a heavy frown d’Artagnan’s way. “I’m going to go easy on you, d’Artagnan, because you’re a cop, and we look after our own. So I’m letting you go with a warning. You’re young. Don’t let me catch you hiding evidence again.”

“I wasn’t hiding evidence!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Will you listen to me! It was a mistake, an honest mistake--”

“Quiet,” Treville roared. “Remember your place, intern. Don’t you dare talk back to me that way ever again. I displayed leniency for your breach of conduct. If you weren’t a cop, I’d think you were just another punk with a control problem! I’ll give you a choice -- either you cool your heels in our holding cells, or I tell Internal Affairs to have a good, long look at your file.”

D’Artagnan glowered, his face red and his hands shaking. “Fine,” he bit out. “Cells.”

“Good choice. Bonacieux?”

Constance caught d’Artagnan’s arm in a firm grip. “This way, intern.”

“Constance--”

Constance sniffed. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

D’Artagnan slumped his shoulders and let himself be led to holding.

* * * * *

The listening device under the table of the Musketeers Agency had almost shut off when it registered a ringtone breaking the silence. 

Athos paused the fourth run-through of Milady leaving the airport.

“Hello?”

“Athos! I was calling to make sure you’re coming tonight.”

Athos groaned and closed his eyes. “The fundraiser.”

“Yes, of course!” Ninon paused. “You’ve been very busy lately. I’ve seen you on the news.”

“Yes,” Athos said heavily.

“How is that going?”

“It’s not going. It’s gone.”

“She…?”

“She got away.”

Ninon clucked sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Now I believe I’ve -- I’ve ruined everything I had with d’Artagnan for nothing.” He swallowed. “I was going to ask him to move in with me.”

His hand clenched. He hadn’t meant to say that at all.

“Oh, Athos,” Ninon sighed. “Look, why don’t you come and see me tonight?”

“But you’re at the fundraiser.”

“Yes, but the fundraiser is at my house, isn’t it? Trust me, I’m an excellent host. It will be good for you to relax. You remember how to get here, don’t you? Just off the Boulevard Périphérique. I think it’s only an exit or two from your estate, come to think of it.”

“You’re already assuming I’ll come,” Athos grumbled. Louder he said, “Fine. I’ll come.”

“Good! Wear something nice. See you soon!”

* * * * *

Rochefort followed Treville down the hallway to the holding cells. The noise from the bullpen dropped as they neared the door.

“Wait here,” Treville ordered tersely. He entered holding. The heavy door swung closed behind him.

Rochefort looked around for the operator’s panel. Due to a human rights law, every holding cell in Paris had to be covered by video surveillance at all times. He turned the audio up; no one else was in the hallway. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and made himself comfortable for the show.

 _“Look at me,”_ Treville was saying on camera no. 8.

D’Artagnan was a slumped, defeated figure on a cell bench.

_“If any other of my officers did this, I’d have them in a tribunal in a heartbeat. I’m giving you one chance to explain yourself to me.”_

_"What's the point. You've already decided I’m guilty."_

_"No one has decided anything yet."_

_"Detective Bonacieux didn't think so."_ Rochefort noted the spite in Bonacieux’s title. The rift between detective and intern was too wide for reparations. Good.

 _"You're one of mine, d'Artagnan. That means that your fate is up to me. I decide what happens next. Got it?"_ Treville shifted a little. _"Is this about you and Athos?"_

_"I don't want to talk about it."_

_“I warned you when you began here that any relationship nonsense was to stay separate from your jobs. If you let this affect your work, Charles--”_

Charles. Milady had uncovered the familial connection between the captain and d’Artagnan. Luckily, Rochefort had planned around that issue.

 _“I said, I don’t want to talk about it!”_ D’Artagnan finally moved: he jumped to his feet, a staticky grey blob of agitation.

Treville was silent -- Rochefort guessed he was doing his breathing exercises. Then he said curtly, _“Fine. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a night in holding.”_

He left the cell and locked d’Artagnan in. He turned for the door. Rochefort didn’t reach for the audio controls yet -- he could see the decision forming in d’Artagnan’s straightening figure.

_“Wait!”_

Treville had known it was coming too. _“Yes?”_

_“I -- I’m sorry.”_

_“You’re sorry?”_ Treville prompted.

 _“I’m sorry,_ sir. _It won’t happen again.”_

Treville nodded and unlocked the cell door again. He put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He must have gripped tightly; d’Artagnan flinched. _“Like I said, d’Artagnan, you’re one of mine. I protect my own. Don’t let me catch you at this again.”_

_“Yessir.”_

_“Good.”_

Rochefort reached out a hand and switched the audio off just before Treville swung open the door. Rochefort leaned against the wall, for all appearances the trustworthy, obedient detective who awaited the captain’s orders.

Treville motioned for Rochefort to come collect d’Artagnan, saying over his shoulder, “I didn’t say you were forgiven. One week’s probation.”

D’Artagnan stopped before he reached the doorway. “Probation? One week?” he spluttered. “Sir--”

Treville turned back, and d’Artagnan shut up. “Take it or leave it, d’Artagnan.”

Rochefort saw the fire kindle in d’Artagnan’s eye.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan spat. He pushed his way past Treville, ignored Rochefort, and strode away down the hallway, toward the busy bullpen.

“Detective,” said Treville. “Follow him.” He was staring after d’Artagnan, the grave expression drawing the lines on his face ever deeper. “He’s an unstable force. I worry about anyone he might hurt in this condition.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rochefort. _That’s the plan,_ he thought, satisfied, and strolled away after d’Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, my lovelies. D'Artagnan will give cuddles to all reviewers :3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional abuse; guns.

Athos’ apartment was almost completely dark. The fluorescents of the bathroom blazed like a beacon in the night, escaping the edges of the room and falling onto the carpet of the bedroom in geometric shards of light.

The only sound in the entire apartment was the comparatively loud buzz of the electric razor. Everything else was a close, pressing silence. The darkness and the silence were one beast, lurking just beyond the light.

At the mirror, Athos paused consideringly, the razor suspended in one hand. He touched up one sideburn and set the razor down.

Next: damp cloth. Aftershave, cologne. Deodorant. Hair gel. Mouthwash.

He left the bathroom and went to the bed. He didn’t turn on the lights; the bathroom light was enough, and he knew where everything was.

Undershirt. Socks. Slacks. Keys in one pocket; phone in the other. Battery pack and wire. Dress shirt. Vest. Tie. Vest.

Ostensibly, Athos was dressing for a fundraiser. But the routine brought him back to the days when he would dress for his wife.

 _Ex_ -wife.

She had always liked for him to dress up. She had liked picking out his cufflinks and matching his tie to her dress. She’d liked putting her hands all over him.

He’d liked the attention. He’d liked the promise of affection -- or the wild, bruising approximation of such -- that would follow whatever event they were attending. He’d liked the looks she’d send across the room, or the fingers that would dance up his thigh in the dark theatre.

He still remembered her as beautiful. His strongest memory of her was on the night Thomas had died -- when she had killed Thomas -- her hands drenched with blood and her dress smeared, and her face so pale and beautiful. The way her hands had reached for him -- how her eyes had widened in relief when she saw him -- the open sob of her mouth.

He had felt needed. In an instant, he had resolved to be her protector. The resolve had lasted until he had stepped into the gun room and had seen Thomas laid out on the floor.

Athos knew that in truth, he was dressing for his wife tonight.

He had told Porthos: _Once we catch her, it will all be worth it._

It wasn’t just the catching. It was the knowing. Athos needed to know if she had ever loved him. He needed to know if she had truly loved him once; or whether she chosen him as a mark because she thought his smile was kind; or if it was all for the money.

The last would hurt the least.

Athos plucked a pair of cufflinks from the bowl on his dresser. He didn’t put them on, but traced the design that he knew by heart. He pressed the seal into the pad of his thumb; he could feel the raised engraving of the golden rooster and the crossed swords. His father’s seal.

He left the dim bedroom for the dark of the sitting room, rolling the cufflinks around in his hand. The bay window cast a pale light into the room, though not nearly enough to give resolution to any of the furniture.

Athos ignored the reflection of the room, and stared into the night as if he could see down the dark streets, past the few feeble streetlights, and scour the faces of any person lurking in the alleys.

Less than a week ago in this room, on that couch, with d’Artagnan an arms’ length away, Athos had said that he needed to know the truth of Anne’s feelings for him. Athos had looked out the window then too, feeling her coming closer, surrounding him; and now he felt her presence prickling the hairs of his neck.

He ran his thumb over the cufflinks again. He wondered what his father would have to say about all of this. Athos had few solid memories of his father; the most prominent recollection was of a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a pressed suit, standing in a study and explaining the importance of the family name.

He had been gone before Athos’ twentieth birthday.

It all came down to family: the ones he’d been born with, and the ones he’d chosen. His father and Thomas were gone. The woman he’d asked to be his family had killed his brother; and to find her again, Athos had chased away the man who had become his world.

And now he was alone.

Something behind Athos moved in the window’s reflection.

No -- not quite alone.

In the dark of the room, Anne’s pale skin shone in the glass: her bare arms, her throat, her oval face with the blood-red slash of lipstick. Her skirts rustled as she stood gracefully from the armchair behind Athos.

“It’s been too long, Athos,” she said. “Have you missed me?”

Athos’ mouth went dry.

* * * * *

Constance found Captain Treville standing in the middle of the hallway that led to the holding cells. He was staring off into the distance, but he shook off his stupor when he saw her.

“Sir,” she said. She presented an evidence bag. “The listening device from under your desk.”

Captain Treville took the bag and peered through the plastic. The deactivated device held none of the malice of its owner; now, it was no more than a dead lump of plastic. “This was the only one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well. Rochefort won’t be needing this anymore.” Captain Treville lowered the bag and sighed. With his other hand, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked how Constance felt: as though the only thing supporting him through exhaustion was rage and apprehension. The past week had been a stomach-clenching rollercoaster of nerves, and it wasn’t over yet.

Constance couldn’t stand to see her boss looking so worn. “The yelling was a nice touch, sir.”

Captain Treville looked confused for a moment. Then a glint of humor entered his eye. “Do you think?”

“Oh, yes,” said Constance solemnly. “I really liked the bit where you told d’Artagnan you’d sic Internal Affairs on him.”

Captain Treville looked marginally more cheerful. He started down the hallway, Constance at his shoulder. “I can’t take all the credit, detective,” he said. He hardened his face into a scowl. “‘It’s Head Detective Bonacieux to you, scum’.”

“I think you’re elaborating a bit, sir.”

“Nonsense.”

Captain Treville’s faint smile dropped off his face as they re-entered the bullpen and saw the Interpol agents milling impatiently around outside Conference Room A.

“Once more unto the breach,” he said under his breath.

“Sir--” In a rare breach of propriety, Constance laid a hand on her captain’s arm. She dropped it as soon as he turned to her, aware of their respective roles, but her eyes conveyed the comfort she’d meant with the gesture. “We needed solid evidence before we even tried anything. You made the right call. I know the word of a detective doesn’t mean much to the mayor and the agents of Interpol, but I’ll stand behind you.”

“On the contrary, Bonacieux. Your word carries a great deal of weight. You’re a good detective.”

Constance stood taller and smiled; she couldn’t help it. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now--”

“I’ve gotten Davies and Chin out of your hair; they’re going to the morgue. Matin is busy with the break-in case. And Agent Owusu is fully briefed on the situation to date.”

Captain Treville shook his head. “And yet the coffee machines are still broken.”

“As for me,” she continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “I’ve got a live feed to listen to.”

Captain Treville sobered. “You remember the codewords?”

“Of course. ‘Diamond’ to stay in play. ‘Adventure’ for extraction.”

“He might not want extraction,” Captain Treville cautioned. “We have enough to convict Rochefort from today’s video alone, but you know d’Artagnan.”

“I do,” Constance said ruefully. “He’ll want to see it to the end.”

“Once you hear -- either way -- join us.” Treville nodded in dismissal and turned toward the conference room.

“Captain--” Constance swallowed, all her nerves of the past week returning in a rush. “He’ll do the right thing.”

Captain Treville only nodded curtly. “I’m counting on it.”

Constance peeled off for her desk and gathered her equipment. She dodged other detectives in the bullpen and made a casual beeline to a conference room. It was empty but for one person: Zénaide Dusson, the dark-skinned intern who frequently worked with d’Artagnan.

Constance nodded to Dusson, who nodded back and bent once again over her own equipment.

Constance shut the door behind her and pulled the shades on the small window. She arranged her equipment on the table, laid out a pad of paper, and poised her pencil above the page.

She slipped on a pair of headphones.

_“Are you fucking following me?”_

* * * * *

D’Artagnan didn’t look around, but Rochefort could tell that d’Artagnan knew he was there. D’Artagnan shrugged a shoulder irritably, as if shaking off a fly. “Are you fucking following me?”

“Can’t a man offer condolences in peace?” Rochefort asked mildly.

“Condolences for what? Throwing me to the wolves? Thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

Rochefort matched d’Artagnan’s pace. “You know, it was refreshing to hear Treville’s spiel directed at someone else for once.”

D’Artagnan blinked and met Rochefort’s eyes. “You’ve gotten that lecture?”

Rochefort tossed his head. “Not as such. I’ve never been so careless as to let the evidence fall from my pocket in front of him.”

A slight obfuscation: d’Artagnan had never been so careless either. The bag of cocaine had taken a little help -- Rochefort’s clap to d’Artagnan’s back and a little jiggling -- to shake loose of d’Artagnan’s pocket.

D’Artagnan scowled at him, and Rochefort smoothed over the touchy subject. “Relax. Treville might have suspicions, but all he can do without evidence is lecture. He just doesn’t understand how cops are supposed to operate. He thinks it’s fine, sitting in his office with his captain’s paycheck, while the rest of us have to scrounge for party favors.”

“Speak for yourself,” said d’Artagnan. “Some of us don’t have Porsches.”

Rochefort chuckled. “Give it time.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. This is only a slight setback.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “I’m grounded for a week. Like some fucking kid.”

“By the time your vacation is over, I can have taught you a dozen ways to slip these types of things past Treville.”

D’Artagnan chewed his lip. Abruptly, he said, “I’m getting a drink. If you want to stick around, I wouldn’t mind hearing some of those ideas.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Anyway, what’ve I got to lose?”

* * * * *

Constance hunched over the conference room table, hand clenched around the pencil so tightly that the wood creaked.

“Come on,” she muttered. “Diamonds or adventure. Tell us whether you’re staying in or need extraction. Come on.”

* * * * *

Athos stood stock-still as Milady approached him. His back was tense under his vest and dress shirt; his muscles as rigid as if carved from stone. She reached out a hand as if to touch his arm. She held her fingers just above the silk shirt, waiting to see what Athos would do. Athos trembled, almost imperceptibly, but he held himself still for her. Good boy.

She ran the hand down his arm, feeling the tremors in his muscles as he fought against the urge to flee. She circled him to come face-to-face. In the dark of the room, only one side of Athos’ face was lit from the streetlights outside. His visible eye was wide, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring.

“Have you missed me, Athos?” she asked again.

“No.”

She smiled in a baring of teeth. “Don’t lie to me, Athos.”

Athos took a shaky breath. “I haven’t missed you.”

“Oh, no? ‘I’ve been over every detail a thousand times’.” Her voice was light and mocking. “‘I wonder if she ever loved me. If only I could ask her’.”

She held up the listening device that she had fetched from behind the armoire when she had entered the apartment earlier. She could see when he realized what it was.

“You’ve been listening to me,” he rasped.

“Of course. I’ve been worried about you, Athos. Keeping tabs on the agency just wasn’t enough. Even when I couldn’t hear you, I had eyes on you. I know all about your very public breakup with your young lover.”

“That was in the precinct.”

“So it was. Did you think I wouldn’t have someone watching you everywhere you go, Athos?” She stepped closer to him, exuding sympathy. “I’ve been concerned about you. My lawyers say you haven’t returned their phone calls recently. And now this: drinking again, picking fights, skipping meals?” She paused, stepped back, and eyed him critically. “Though that might be a benefit. You’ve gained a bit of pudge since we were married, dear.”

He responded to the jab as he always had. He was so beautifully expressive, her Athos. She watched the hurt ripple over his face, and then sink behind a mask of indifference.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Have you come just to taunt me?”

Milady didn’t appreciate the tone. She took his chin in her hand, her red nails pressing dimples into his skin. “You wanted answers, didn’t you?”

His eyes stayed locked on hers, mesmerized. “Yes,” he breathed.

“I got tired of you first.” She dropped her hand. She was suddenly furious. The memories of what they’d once had, of what she had lost, always threatened to overcome her if she dwelt on them too long. She pushed them down with effort. “I loved you once, Athos,” she said. He looked as though she had sucker-punched him. “With all my heart and soul. But you just weren’t enough.”

She reached out to toy with his collar. He took a step back. Her eyes narrowed.

“You were too selfish,” she continued ruthlessly. “I asked you so many times to listen to me, but you always chose whatever you wanted. You’re so selfish, Athos. Your friends know it. They can’t stand to be near you. And your little loverboy?” She laughed coldly. “He got out before you could poison him, too. I almost feel glad for him. At least he got out. I wasted long years of my life with you, hoping that you would change, waiting for you to be a better person.”

She stepped closer to him again. He didn’t back away this time. She tilted her face up to his, angling her lips just an inch away from his mouth. She looked up at him through her lashes. “You still love me, don’t you, Athos? You still want me. I know you do. If you really wanted me caught, you would have told them that I never left on that plane. You would have told the police about the second set of currency dies that your parents didn’t donate to the Musée.”

He shuddered out a breath. “Is that what you want?”

“Where are they?”

“Why the dies?”

Milady smiled. “They’re small. No one will miss them.”

Athos’ eyes dipped down to her lips. “What if I report them missing?”

“You won’t.” She pressed her lips to his ear. “I loved you once, Athos. Do this for me and prove that you can really be a man. Fight for my love.”

She could feel his pulse jump. The silence of the room pressed in on them, waiting for Athos’ answer.

“That was your mistake last time, Anne,” Athos said. He sounded unbearably sad. “I was a police officer before I was ever your husband.”

Milady was frozen with rage for only an instant. Then the pistol from her thigh holster was in her hands and pressed against Athos’ ribs. “Tell me where they are.”

Athos leaned forward into the barrel of the gun. “If I don’t?”

Milady was reminded of Rochefort’s deliberate lean into her dagger. But Rochefort’s eyes had been cruel; Athos’ were empty. She still held the power of the room. This was no test. This was welcoming death with open arms.

Athos needn’t be so hasty. There would be time enough for that later.

“If you don’t,” she said, keeping the gun very still, “then I tell my friend at the precinct to put a bullet through d’Artagnan’s pretty head.”

“No,” Athos said immediately. He eased away from the gun. “Please. I’ll give you anything. Diamonds. Gold. Anything.”

“I only want the dies.” Milady prodded him. “Where are they?”

Athos squeezed his eyes shut. When he answered, it was as if the words had been ripped out of his throat. “The estate.”

* * * * *

* * * * *

“They’ll be talking about me behind my back,” d’Artagnan lamented blearily. “I just know it.”

Rochefort toyed with his wine glass. “Of course. That’s how police departments work.”

D’Artagnan didn’t seem to like this logic; he waved a hand as if swatting Rochefort’s words out of the air. “Everyone’s gonna know,” he said.

Rochefort sighed. Sloppy drunks were not his area. “That’s the point.”

D’Artagnan peered at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Never mind. How about a refill?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet,” d’Artagnan protested, but he accepted another beer from the bartender. He pulled it close to him while he drank from his half-empty mug.

“Y’know what you shouldn’t do?” d’Artagnan said. He leaned toward Rochefort as if imparting a grand secret.

“What.”

D’Artagnan pointed a finger at him. “Y’shouldn’t put your trust in... “ he burped. “Love.”

“You’ve said that. Thrice.”

“It bears rep… retip… it’s got s’mthing to do with bears.”

Rochefort glanced at his cell phone. Finally, a text from Milady. Thank god.

“Listen,” he said. He tugged the beer from d’Artagnan, who pouted but turned to his full mug. “You must be pretty torn up about Athos.”

At the name, d’Artagnan’s eyes darkened. “Yeah, so what? He--”

Rochefort cut off what would be the third rant about how much d’Artagnan was definitely better off without Athos.

“How would you like to get back at him?” he asked.

D’Artagnan took a moment to ponder the idea. “Like… make him jealous?”

“More along the lines of taking his wealth.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t have acc… assess… can’t get to the credit card anymore.”

“That’s nothing. He’s a de la Fere, you know, and he’s got a whole mansion just outside Paris.”

“I know. Never been, though.”

“You’ve never seen the family safe?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“It’s an entire room. The door is two feet thick, eye retina scan and everything. I bet he’s got valuables stashed there.”

“‘Spensive volleyballs?” D’Artagnan opened his mouth to correct his error, seemed to forget what he was going to say, and took a gulp of beer.

“Paintings, jewelry, everything.” Rochefort gave up trying to drop subtle hints. “Pure gold. Piles of money.”

D’Artagnan visibly perked up. “Maybe a Porsche? I want one.”

“Sure,” said Rochefort. “You deserve one. He’s hoarding this treasure while you work harder than he does.”

“Yeah,” said d’Artagnan slowly. Then, indignantly, “Yeah! I do!”

“Why don’t we go up there and poke around, eh? See what we can find. I’m sure he wouldn’t miss it.”

D’Artagnan nodded slowly. “Yes. But!” He held up a solemn finger. “First. I gotta piss.”

* * * * *

“Take this exit,” Milady ordered.

“I know how to get to my own estate,” Athos said evenly.

Milady kept the gun trained on his heart. “Don’t be pedantic. I want to make sure you don’t try to take another exit. You haven’t forgotten my promise about d’Artagnan, have you? He’s such a nice young lad. It would be a shame for anything to happen to that pretty face of his. Where did you meet him, Athos?”

Athos’ fingers tightened on the wheel. “Don’t.”

“I admit, I was surprised when I first saw you two together. He’s quite young, isn’t he?”

“ _Stop_.”

Milady relented, but only because she’d rather Athos not crash into the guardrail. “Just remember that if you so much as think of ruining my plan, a bullet goes through his brain.”

Athos nodded jerkily.

Milady watched the yellow light of streetlamps slide over the familiar features of his face. “You’ve cost me too many plans,” she said softly. “It won’t happen again. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Athos glanced at her. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t have to be this way. I can give you as much money as you want.”

“Do you know how many jobs went down the sink after you had me arrested? Do you know how many pros wouldn’t work with me anymore?” Milady’s free hand clenched into a fist, the nails digging into her palm. “If you’d only kept your mouth shut, I could still be at the top. Now I have to beg for favor. You owe me, Athos. I’m only taking what was rightly mine before you tossed me aside.”

“But why the dies?”

She smiled in a cold parody of patience. “Come, Athos. You know what the other dies are.”

Athos frowned. “They’re flawed. The dies were made incorrectly. The coins they pressed could never be used as currency.”

“And what happens to a flawed coin once it passes out of circulation? It becomes immensely valuable.”

“The dies are from the fifteenth century,” Athos realized.

“Exactly. What could be a better addition to a private collection than a genuine, one-of-a-kind misprinted franc?”

Athos fell silent. “I see.”

“I’m the best at what I do. The rest are too scared to see it. But this--” She smiled at the thought of her coup d’etat. “This will send them all reeling. I’ll prove that I deserve the Cardinal’s sponsorship.”

She crossed her legs, careful to keep the gun steady. “Now. Take this right.”

Athos slowed and swung a right turn. Gravel crunched under the tires.

The de la Fere estate was shrouded in darkness, but Milady still recognized the grand shape of the house, crouching like a slumbering beast in the middle of a straight roll of lawn.

The last time she had been here, the house had been lit. Two men had been waiting inside for her. This time, Milady would wait for the men to arrive. This time, Milady would have the upper hand.

* * * * *

D’Artagnan heaved one last time and flushed the toilet. He rinsed his mouth in the sink and spat.

His reflection was a wrecked young man, just past his teenage years, with tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes. He straightened a little more and swayed on the spot. Thank all the small mercies for his wild years in university. He knew how to approximate the stunned look of a kid who had overestimated his alcohol tolerance. The beer was mostly out of his system, but Rochefort couldn’t know that.

 _Just a little longer_ , he told himself. _It will all be worth it._

He staggered out of the bathroom.

Rochefort was still at the bar; he stood when he saw d’Artagnan. “I’ll drive. My car’s outside.”

D’Artagnan went right up to him, letting his breath wash over Rochefort and feeling gratified when Rochefort visibly held back a wince. “I was thinking,” he said. “In there, I was thinking about these riches. I should get first pick. ‘Specially if there’s diamonds. I really want diamonds.”

“Of course,” said Rochefort. He had regained his veneer of patience since d’Artagnan had agreed to go with him. “We’ll take whatever you want.” He put an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and pulled him closer. It might have looked chummy, but it felt like a vice. “So what do you say you and I go to Athos’ estate and see what we can find? It’ll be an adventure, won’t it?”

“Yeah,” said d’Artagnan. “An… A real trip.”

* * * * *

Milady's heels still clicked on the floor of the front hall. For a surreal moment it was as if they were returning from the opera, about to flick the lights on and go upstairs to their bedroom.

“Lights?” she said. Her voice echoed slightly.

“I don’t keep the electricity on. Unless I’m coming out here,” he added.

“You were always so stingy.” Milady tapped her gun against Athos’ spine. “The library. Now.”

He obediently led the way to the library door, finding his way through the house with ease even after so long. The library was at the side of the house, with a view of part of the driveway and the yard.

He hesitated at the doorway. It seemed wrong to try to command her; she had always been a force of nature, obeying no laws but her own.

But he had to say it.

“Anne. Please. Don’t do this.”

The gun pressed tightly against him. "You know how well I can use this, Athos."

Athos swallowed and entered the library.

Thomas Senior, Athos’ father, had had all the paranoia of a wealthy old white man who was sure that everyone was after his wealth. Besides the collection of firearms upstairs, he had also invested in every new security technology in order to keep his valuables safe.

How ironic, that Athos should be opening his father’s safe at the behest of a woman who wanted his money. Earlier he had wondered what his father would have said about this; Athos no longer needed to wonder. He knew well enough.

The safe squatted behind a full-size Degas painting. Athos swung the painting on a hinge and revealed the glowing keypad and blinking security lights of the safe.

Milady pressed herself against his back. “Open it.”

Athos inched forward, preferring the cold touch of the safe to the warmth at his back. He entered the codes, primary and secondary, into the keypad. The safe clicked and popped open.

“Draw out the dies, and only those,” Milady instructed. “No sudden movements.”

Athos reached into the safe and felt around. The interior of the safe wasn’t lit; who had come up with that design?

His fingers touched soft leather. He withdrew the pouch that contained the carefully wrapped dies. He turned around, holding out the pouch, and Milady beckoned.

“Give it to me,” she ordered. She grabbed the pouch and felt it, squeezing the leather to find the outline of the dies.

Athos’ hand inched sideways. There was a light chair by him; if he just reached a bit further--

He lunged for the chair. He had barely lifted it off the ground before something slammed into his eye and he stumbled back, dropping the chair.

Milady advanced on him, holding the gun as if to whip it against his face again. “How dare you?” she said. “Raising a hand against your own wife.”

He pressed a hand to his eye and groaned. “You’re not my wife.”

“By all rights, all of this should be mine,” she said, gesturing with her gun at the safe, the dark library, the entire empty shell of a house. “Don’t you remember our wedding vows, Athos?”

He backed up as she advanced. “The insurance company,” he panted. “We had the dies registered. You knew where they were.”

She kept coming toward him. “It seems you aren’t a completely useless detective after all.” She smirked. “It’s a pity you’re figuring it out too late.”

“You didn’t need me here to open the safe. You could have gotten the codes from me. Why did you bring me here? What’s really your plan?”

He hit the wall. Milady grabbed for his wrist, still pointing the gun at his head with her other hand. Something wrapped around his wrist, and then his arm was jerked into the air.

Milady snapped the other end of the handcuffs around a light fixture that jutted out of the wall. Athos tugged, to no avail.

“My plan, darling? My plan is to return every pain you gave me.” She touched her hand to the necklace at her throat, the one Athos knew must cover the wound from the gun that had backfired the night she shot Thomas. “Why did you have to read Thomas’ file, Athos?” A tremor crept into her voice. “You tore everything from me once you read that file. You hated who I was. I always knew you would.”

Her voice hardened again. “Now I’m returning the favor. I’m set for a good five years, and you, love…” Milady cupped his cheek. He turned his face away. “You can rot here. Very good quality, those handcuffs. The Parisian police only use the best steel.”

Athos jerked around to see the cuffs.

“A gift from your young lover,” Milady said sweetly. “He should really look after his things.”

Athos turned back to her. He could feel his horror written all over his face. “Leave him out of this.”

“It’s too late for that.” Milady stepped away. Athos struggled to reach her, wrenching his arm at the socket.

“Anne -- leave him alone! Don’t touch him!”

A flash of light from outside the house swept over Milady’s face. Headlights.

“Just in time,” she said. “Here he is now.” Athos could barely see her outline in the dark, but he could imagine her satisfied smile as clear as day.

“Anne, I’m begging you, please don’t harm d’Artagnan.”

“Don’t worry, Athos. Soon enough you won’t be worrying about him at all.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought you guys might have been getting anxious about all this tension so I've decided to give you a break. Flashback time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: emotional abuse; implicit reference to rape/victim blaming; off-screen murder; on-screen blood and description of dead body; shooting.

**Six years ago**

The de la Fere estate should have been dark at this time of night. Maybe Athos would turn his bedside lamp on while he read until a reasonable hour. But more than one light was on in the house, and from the dining room came the sounds of laughter and clinking silverware.

Athos chuckled and gestured with his wine glass. “What about the time we hid in the attic and demanded that pudding be sent up to us?”

Thomas choked on his mouthful of pasta. He swallowed hastily and spluttered with laughter. “I remember that! Father was furious, but Mother talked to the cook and had her put a--”

“A tray of tapioca outside the door, I remember.”

“You hated tapioca!”

“Mother knew it,” Athos agreed. “She starved us out.”

“That sly woman,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “She was always one step ahead of us.”

“Of Father, too.”

There was a moment of silence as each brother remembered the woman they had lost too early. Even the shock of the accident hadn’t been quite enough to forget some of the harsh stings of their father’s tough love; but their mother, an angel in life, had been practically canonized in death.

Athos blinked away some of the tears that involuntarily sprang to his eyes whenever he thought of her. He looked over to see Thomas doing the same.

“Well,” Athos said bracingly. “Why don’t we retire to the study?” The study was the after-dinner room of choice, based on its cozy armchairs and fireplace, a sturdy table for cards, a view of the side lawn, and most importantly, a fully stocked liquor cabinet.

Thomas snorted and pushed his chair away from the dinner table. “You sound too much like Father when you say that. Will you have some cigars waiting for us there as well?”

“Only if you want to suck the smoke out of the curtains,” Athos said dryly.

“My god, you haven’t had them changed?”

“Anne doesn’t go into the study. She says I can keep it as my man-cave, for all she cares.”

Thomas’ expression soured. “Ah, Anne. How is my darling sister-in-law?” He turned and led the way to the study before Athos could respond.

Athos sighed and followed Thomas. “She’s doing well, thank you,” he said to his brother’s back. “She’s on a business trip until tomorrow.”

Thomas went straight to the liquor cabinet. “I know.”

“You know?” Athos repeated, puzzled.

Thomas shrugged as he poured a drink. “Otherwise she’d be here. With her spiked tail wrapped around your ankle like a ball and chain.” He made a face at Athos.

“Thomas.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Thomas held the glass out to Athos in apology. Athos took it. “I promise to be nice,” Thomas continued. “I just came here to see my older brother.”

“Completely unannounced and on the spur of the moment,” Athos said, letting some of the skepticism he’d felt, when Thomas had shown up a few hours ago and hugged Athos profusely, creep into his voice.

“The best things in life are done spontaneously,” Thomas said, grinning. His smile had always won the heart of many a young lady and the pocketbook of many a crotchety aunt. When he beamed like that, Athos couldn’t find it in himself to argue any further. 

“Good thing I did come over, though,” said Thomas. He flopped down in one of the armchairs by the cold fireplace. “It must be ghastly to spend your nights here alone. Why don’t you move somewhere smaller? Closer to the city proper?”

Athos shrugged and sat as well. “I don’t mind the commute.”

In fact, he had asked Anne the same question. But Anne said that she’d fallen in love with the house the first moment she had seen it. It was her comfort when she returned home. She couldn’t bear to leave it. And he couldn’t bear to make her give that up.

“Why is it you’re forced to travel into the city every morning, and she gets flown out to Brazil or whatever for her job? What does she even do?"

Athos shrugged. “Something to do with... cataloguing. It’s complicated.” Anne never said much about her work. When Athos asked how a recent trip had been, she would wave a hand and say, "Oh, fine." She got annoyed if he tried to press. He had learned not to. Anne was a wildfire, a tempest, and pushing at a force of nature only got scorched hands.

"She even made you get rid of the dog," Thomas said. “You loved the dog.”

“It couldn’t be helped. She was allergic." Though Athos missed Scooby. He still carried dog biscuits around in his pocket when he was walking the beat, just in case he saw a dog that looked like it might share Scooby’s love of treats.

He shifted restlessly. “Can’t we talk about something besides your quarrels with the house?”

“It’s not the house I’ve got a quarrel against,” said Thomas.

“How’s work?” said Athos firmly.

“Fine,” said Thomas. “Don’t you ever want to get out of this place?”

“Junior agent at Interpol, that’s impressive. Pushing for senior agent?”

“Look, I just bought a new place in Alsace. You should visit. You’re going to love it.”

Athos couldn’t help but take the bait. “You bought an apartment?”

“A house. It’s a cabin. It has all the proper furnishings, and a porch and all. Isn’t that a kicker?”

“You bought a house? For how much money?”

Thomas waved a hand. “It’s just the down payment so far.”

“Well, how many payments are left?”

“I don’t know. I thought you could help me with all that. You’re so good at figuring out all that money nonsense.” Thomas dimpled. “Bonds, stocks, mortgages -- I don’t understand a word of it.”

Ah, there it was. Here was the motive for visiting his older brother out of the blue -- and in a far friendlier mood than when they’d last parted.

“I’m not going to pay for your house,” Athos said slowly.

“Of course not! I wasn’t saying that at all. But if you want to help out, as an older brother... ” He saw the negative twist of Athos’ mouth and hurried on. “I was thinking that you could sort it all out, all that scheduling and such. You know better than I the state of our trust funds. ”

“Yes, I do. And I know that yours is being drained. What about the Lamborghini last month?”

“Oh, come on. Mother and Father left us enough to buy as many Lamborghinis as we want.”

“That’s not the point. If you buy everything you want and don’t invest--”

“God, not another lecture about financial responsibility.”

Athos’ heart pounded in his chest, anxious at the thought of bringing this topic up again, but he knew he had to. “Speaking of spending foolishly -- what about the large chunk of money that disappeared the week you were suspended from university?”

Thomas’ warm, lazy attitude went cool. His gaze went flat. “Are you serious? You’re bringing this up again? I’ve told you that I hate it when you snoop.”

“You were nineteen,” Athos said. As with every time he tried to have this conversation, he found himself justifying himself instead of demanding an explanation. “Your account was accessible by family members over twenty-one years old. I was only looking after you--”

“I can’t believe you did that.” Thomas looked young again, angry. Athos was reminded of Thomas as a toddler, screwing up his face and wailing when he didn't get a toy.

“Obviously the university president was also concerned, seeing as he suspended you--”

“It was bullshit, total bullshit. I can’t believe you listened to him.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, pushing the carefully arranged wave out of balance.

Athos leaned forward, intent on Thomas’ pale face. “I couldn’t have listened to him; he never told me anything. Thomas, I never understood why you were suspended, much less why it took fifteen thousand Euro and a week of silence from the school board to reinstate your enrollment. If you’d confide in--”

“I don’t need to confide in you. You’re not actually my parent, Athos. You remember that, right?”

Athos repressed the urge to flinch at that jab. “If something happened--”

“Nothing happened. You weren’t needed. It was just a stupid rumor, okay? The university wanted to check it out, they suspended me, I talked to some people and it went away. Anyway," he added in a mutter Athos almost didn't hear, "bitch was only pretending she didn't want it. She took the money readily enough."

"She? But your dean was a man--"

Thomas made a cutting gesture. "The point is, it's over, and you’re still poking your nose into my business like you always do. You should be proud of me, not nagging me about something that happened years ago. You’re never going to be my parent, no matter how hard you try to mother me.”

Athos couldn’t stop the flinch that time. Thomas saw; his voice softened. “I know that time was hard, and you were just looking after me. But that’s over. I’m an Interpol agent now. I came here tonight because I bought a new house and I thought you’d be excited."

Athos looked away. "I've only tried to look after you. You're my only brother, you know."

"I know. So why can’t you just support me?"

Athos stared into his glass. “I suppose I could go up with you and see the house.”

Thomas grinned. He tossed his head and his hair fell back into place. He was again the charismatic young man who had embraced Athos so warmly when he entered the estate as if it was his own house. “Excellent. And you’ll look over the payments?”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s go soon. How about Monday?”

“I have to apply for vacation time in advance.”

Thomas laughed. “Do you? At Interpol, we valued agents can take time off whenever we want. The bosses know we get our job done and they like to reward us.”

“How nice for you.”

“Yes. I’ve already got a few cases under my belt. I’m coming up in the ranks. You know, Athos, I think I’m going to do very well at Interpol.”

Athos sent him a soft smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“It’s too bad you’re still pounding the beat with the unrefined masses in the Parisian police,” Thomas sniffed.

Athos sighed and looked away again. “When would you be available to visit your new house?”

“I told you, any time at all.”

“I’ll ask Anne and let you know when we can both arrange for vacation.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Can’t we two go somewhere without _milady_ tagging along?”

“Thomas,” Athos said warningly. Thomas frequently made jabs at Anne marrying into what was technically nobility, despite the fact that Athos had never used the title of count that he had inherited after his father’s death. ‘Milady’ would be a proper way to address a countess, although Anne had never insisted on being called such. “Anne is my family. She’ll want to come with me.”

“Here,” said Thomas, rising. He went to the bag he had brought with him, and which he had kept with him at dinner, and slid a folder out of it. The folder looked like the files that the police department kept on criminals, but it had ‘Interpol’ stamped across the front. “I’ve got something that’ll change your mind about bringing Anne along.”

He held the file out to Athos. “Go on, take a look.”

Athos stared at the file. “What…?”

The sound of the front door opening echoed through the house. It shut loudly. A delicate heel clicked onto the floor of the front hall.

Athos sat up, nearly spilling his drink. “That’s Anne.”

“Back from a business trip?” Thomas asked, a touch sardonically.

Athos eyed him, wondering about the tone, but he set down the drink and stood up. “I should go talk to her. She -- I didn’t tell her -- she didn’t know you were visiting.”

“That’s quite a diplomatic way of saying, ‘She’ll claw your eyes out if she sees you,’” said Thomas.

“Thomas.”

“I’d better make myself scarce. I need to powder my face anyway.” Thomas slipped out of the room.

Athos took a moment to brush himself off and run a hand through his hair. He hadn’t expected Anne to be back so early, or else he would have called her. He wished he could have had everything ready for her return. He knew she would be unhappy now, and her unhappiness tore at him.

His hands clenched and unclenched in a nervous habit as he left the room.

Anne was displeased, as he’d known she would be. Years of marriage had tuned him into her emotions before she even expressed them. He resolved to have breakfast brought up to her in bed tomorrow morning. They’d go to the botanical gardens. He’d been too focused on selfish things; now it was time to pamper Anne.

Anne left for the bedroom, leaving the scent of her perfume on Athos’ cheek and a promise whispered in his ear, to be fulfilled if Athos could see Thomas to the door.

Thomas wasn’t in the study. Athos drained what was left of the drink he’d abandoned by his chair and waited for Thomas to return.

The file was on the table, where Thomas had left it. Athos touched his fingers to it contemplatively and paused, staring at it.

Then he withdrew his hand and left the file on the table.

He wandered to the window, inhaling the familiar smoky scent of the curtains, and looked out on the lawn. He barely saw the glow of moonlight on the tastefully shaped shrubs and carefully planted flowerbeds. His mind was turning over his conversation with Thomas.

Thomas had always been more outgoing than Athos. While Athos had been content to read and learn Latin at his father’s knee, Thomas had been getting into scraps and flirting with girls. He had run away from home at least eight times, once making it as far as the neighbor’s yard, nearly two miles off.

When he hit his teens, Thomas still ran away from home, only in the more socially accepted way. He'd leave for parties at noon and come back at four in the morning stinking of cheap beer and cigarettes and the perfume that teenage girls bathed in.

Thomas always dragged trouble back with him. Sometimes it was girls, and that would spark a lecture about family values from their father. Sometimes it was the stink of weed or cigarettes, which garnered a lecture from their mother.

Sometimes he'd wake up Athos and say, "My mate’s outside -- he needs a hundred," or "--he needs a lift," or "--do you know if we have a blowtorch?"

Athos went to university and the trouble stayed farther away, but seemed to pick up in intensity. Crashed cars, reports of Thomas falling off his friend’s family's boats. Things his mother would whisper on her weekly calls to Athos. Then Thomas had been shipped off to university as well, and Athos would visit home on his holidays from the police academy to hear of Thomas’ wild adventures at school.

And then, the accident. Both their parents gone. No more lectures or calls or comfortably annoying worrying.

The brothers' natures had spun to extremes during the mourning period. Athos had retreated to his work as a new officer, reading and drinking in his spare time. Thomas had spiraled almost out of control.

In the midst of that stretch of rule-breaking, there had been the call from Thomas's university dean and the strange week of silence. Athos had tried to reach out to Thomas, to let him explain instead of officially accessing records. He had tried to act as his mother would. When that hadn’t worked, Athos had followed his father’s route: lectures, blistering phone calls, and checking up on Thomas at all hours of the day and night.

Thomas had responded to this tactic poorly, as he always had. The careless choices had continued left and right, but now they reeked of money instead of simple youth. He bought his entire class Vespas; he went around the world in eighty days with a friend on the spur of a moment; he invested in a dude ranch in America and tried to encourage his friends to visit. Nothing Athos had said had ever stopped him.

Perhaps Thomas had been right. Athos wasn't his father. He shouldn’t try to be.

Athos glanced back at the file. If he was to be Thomas’ brother again, he wasn't sure that he wanted to be dragged into yet another of Thomas’ schemes.

Athos closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool window. The smell of his father’s cigars enveloped him.

All of a sudden, the silence of the house was blown apart by the sound of a gunshot. Athos was at the foot of the stairs before he registered moving.

He turned mid-step and dashed for the kitchen. He lunged for the wall phone.

Another gunshot.

Oh, god, the gun room. His father’s antique rifles.

The emergency operator answered. “Gunshots at my house,” he told her. “Upstairs. Send emergency vehicles.” He rattled off the address and dropped the phone.

He charged up the stairs, rounding the corner to the gun room.

Anne ran out of the room. Athos’ gut made a full somersault when he saw a terrible gash in her throat, dark and bloody. Blood stained the front of her dress. Her hands were red and dripping.

She saw him, and her beautiful face collapsed into tears. “Oh, god, Athos. There’s been a terrible accident!”

He gripped her arms. “Are you alright? Oh my god.” The neck wound was worse this close. “What did this?”

“I tried to save him,” Anne explained through tears. “But I couldn’t save him and now -- now you have to help me, Athos.”

Dread caught Athos by the back of the neck and draped itself over him. “Save who?”

“You have to help me hide the body. God, Athos, it was an accident, he never meant to pull the trigger.”

Athos couldn’t breathe. Anne felt heavy in his suddenly weak arms. “The body?”

Anne put her hands on his chest and tilted her pretty, tear-stained face up to his. “Thomas was showing me how to use a gun and it went off. It was so terrible. I feel awful.”

Athos was nearly paralyzed with terror. He managed to whisper, “Thomas.”

“It all happened so fast. Athos, if you’ve ever loved me, you have to help me.”

Athos left her in the hallway and approached the door. He could see two legs through the doorway. Thomas’s legs. Those limp feet were more grotesque, for their familiarity, than any crime seen he’d ever visited. Athos felt bile rise in his throat. He wanted to look away, but he kept going. He entered the room.

Thomas lay on the antique Persian rug, the blood from the hole in his forehead pooling and staining the heirloom. Athos felt nauseous again as he registered that his first emotion had been irritation at Thomas for ruining the priceless rug.

He knelt, avoiding the blood, and pressed two fingers to Thomas’ neck. The blood in Thomas’ veins was still; no heart chivvied it along.

He stood. The tips of his fingers came away red.

“You have to help me get rid of him,” Anne said from behind him. “It looks too suspicious. The cops will think I did it. Athos, you’re the only one who’ll believe me. You’re the only one who can help me.”

Athos felt her slim, warm hand on his arm. She pressed her body against his, swaying into his space. He felt choked, claustrophobic.

He couldn’t look away from Thomas’ body, couldn’t stop feeling the press of Anne’s hand on his skin. The hairs on his arm were prickling where she touched him; the hairs on his neck stood up.

“I already called the police,” he said hoarsely. He remembered the phone off the hook downstairs. He would have to hang it up when he went down again.

Anne jerked his arm, hard. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “I thought,”

“God, Athos, you never _think_. What do you think they’ll do when they hear my story? They won’t believe me! Everyone knows we didn’t get on.” She let go of his arm and paced in front of him.

Athos felt cold all over. “Whatever happened--”

She whirled on him. “They’ll take me in for questioning. My reputation will be ruined. I’ll lose my job. I might go to jail, Athos, is that what you want?”

“No,” he said. “Of course not.”

“Then you have to tell them you did it. Just tell them that it was an accident, that you two were playing with guns and one went off. Otherwise you’ve sent me to jail, Athos! You did that when you called the police! You’re so unthinking!” Anne threw her hands in the air and started crying again. “I can’t go to jail!” she sobbed. “Please, Athos!”

Athos tried to embrace her. “We’ll explain everything--”

Anne pushed his arms away. “I know why you won’t stand by me. You don’t love me anymore. I knew, I knew that once he told you, you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

“Of course I love you,” he said helplessly. “Who told me? What are you talking about?”

“I know Thomas told you about me. What I do, who I am.”

She cupped his face in her hands. Her fingers curled behind his ears. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to breathe. Her hands were wet with his brother’s blood; he could feel them slide on his skin.

Anne’s sobs had quieted. Her tears shone on her cheeks like precious stones, shining in the lights of the room. “You have to believe me, Athos, I never wanted to do any of those things. My mentor, Sarazin, he told me to steal. He taught me how to con people, and it was the only way I could eat. I’ve done terrible things, yes; but Athos, it was the only way to survive.”

She wasn’t making sense. He stared at her helplessly. “Anne?”

“The deaths, those were all accidents. They got in Sarazin’s way and he had to dispose of them. He made me do it.” Her hands tightened. “If you’ve ever loved me, Athos, you’ll believe me.” Anne tightened her hands on his head and drew Athos’ head down until her ruby lips were touching his. He could smell the blood on her neck.

“Protect me,” she whispered. “Tell the police it was an accident.”

Athos felt the rug under his foot give slightly. Thomas’ blood had spread to the spot where Athos was standing, soaking into the old fibers.

The bullet had gone straight through Thomas’ forehead. A pinpoint shot. Nearly impossible to do to himself.

Two gunshots, thirty seconds apart.

He had tried to teach Anne how to use a gun when she’d insisted on staying in the house. He hadn’t felt comfortable with the room of antique guns without a lock on the door. But Anne had shied away, saying that guns scared her.

She had never touched a gun, she’d said, and she never would.

_"They were all accidents."_

“Anne,” he whispered against her lips. “What have you done?”

Anne let go of Athos and stepped back. She stared at him. “You really don’t love me anymore,” she said wonderingly. She gave a small hiccup of a laugh. Suddenly she looked so sad -- even more so than she had when she was crying -- that Athos wanted to step forward and take her in his arms again.

Piercing sirens echoed up the long drive to the house. Lights washed over the room and turned it red to match Anne’s hands.

At the sound, Anne’s face hardened. She drew herself up, raising her chin. “And now you’ve sealed my fate. I always knew you were just another man, too self-righteous and proud to care about a woman besides what she gives up to you.”

Someone knocked urgently on the front door. The doorbell rang once, twice, three times; overlapping itself insistently.

He stared at Anne, unable to form words. Thomas’ blood seeped into his boots.

“I hope you realize what you’ve done, Athos,” she said.

The front door broke open. Voices called out. Feet stamped up the stairs. Athos could only imagine the rough boots and bulky gear of the emergency responders ruining the perfect, untouched haven that Anne had created.

“Sir, did you -- okay.” The woman at the door turned and called for her coworkers. “Over here!” She turned back to the room and quickly crossed to kneel beside Thomas. Two fingers searched for Thomas’ pulse.

“He’s dead,” said Athos dully.

She looked up. “Did you call us, sir?” At Athos’ nod, she asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Other responders were at the doorway, some pushing into the room, kneeling beside Thomas’ still frame. Athos registered the shape of police uniforms standing between him and Anne.

“Sir?”

Anne’s words about theft and pulling cons, her strange references to a man named Sarazin -- all that was extraneous. Athos spoke the only truth he knew.

“My wife shot my brother,” said Athos. “She killed him.”

* * * * *

By the time Athos returned to the study, the glow of sunrise was turning the walls pink. Giving his statement -- and all that had entailed -- had taken all night. Athos had ignored the whispers that had quickly spread and the strangers peering into his interrogation room to gawk at him. Word spread quickly.

He knew that the news would be all over his own precinct when he returned to work. The de la Fere house was just inside the city limits. His division would investigate the case.

The house had always seemed too large to Athos. Now, in the still pre-dawn, it seemed like a terrible maze waiting to trap him inside its endless stretch of rooms and hallways.

Thomas’ file was on the table, where Athos had left it.

_Thomas held it out. “I’ve got something that’ll change your mind about bringing Anne along.”_

Anne’s hands cupping his face; her nails pressing into his cheeks. _“I know Thomas told you about me.”_

Athos poured himself a drink. He downed that, and another. He poured a third and carried that to the table. He sat down and pulled the file toward him. His fingers lingered on the ‘Interpol’ stamp on the cover.

Thomas’ work. Anne’s secrets.

He drank, and opened the file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick word: I'm SO grateful to all who've left comments. I haven't been answering lately because, besides a lot of "ARRRGH" noises (which are extremely gratifying, by the way), you are also being wonderful detectives and guessing what's happening! I love that you're all invested enough that you're trying to figure it out, and I haven't wanted to spoil anything by accident. But all will be revealed in the next chapter, and then I'll answer all the wonderful comments y'all have left. Again, thank you so much!! Porthos hugs and butterfly kisses xoxo


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meet-up at the de la Fere estate heats up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: attempted murder, mentions of suicide, guns, arson.

The clicking of Milady’s heels in the front hall echoed back to Athos, where he stood immobile and trapped against the wall of his own house. The clicking grew fainter, and then stopped as Milady exited the house.

The front door shut. The silence of the house, as cold and still as a mausoleum, fell about Athos’ ears.

Athos twisted uselessly against the steel of d’Artagnan’s handcuffs. He tried to force his hand through the small opening, squeezing the flash of his palm with his other hand and jerking his wrist, but with no success.

He fell back against the wall, panting. He could feel the fear-sweat on his face and under his arms. The wrist handcuffed to the light fixture throbbed.

"I can't get out," he said. "Diamond."

He slammed the fist of his free hand against the wall, repeating the word like a curse. "Diamond, diamond, diamond."

* * * * *

Zénaide Dusson looked up from her equipment. "Sir, radio one is repeating 'diamond.'"

Treville paced over to her station. He glanced over her equipment and nodded. "Very good, Dusson.” He turned to another detective. “Matin?"

"Sir," Intern Dusson said tentatively. Treville swung around to regard her again. She swallowed. "Radio one, it... he sounds desperate."

"Is he saying 'adventure'?"

"No, sir."

"Then he knows what he's doing. Matin?"

Detective Matin looked up from her station. "No codewords from radio two since 'diamond,' sir."

Treville blew out a breath. “Alright. Bonacieux?”

Head Detective Bonacieux’s voice crackled over the CB radio. “My team’s in position, sir.”

“Good, good. Hold until I give the word.”

“Yes, sir.”

Treville paced another moment. “Come on, d’Artagnan,” he said under his breath. “Give us the word.”

* * * * *

The cars whizzed by as Rochefort decelerated and took the proper exit off of the Boulevard Périphérique. The dizzying lights and irritated honks faded away as Rochefort turned onto a neat, countryside road.

The streetlights here were dimmer, as if to reassure that there was no danger here that must be illuminated. The lanes were smaller, to keep any trucks out of the neighborhood. Neatly trimmed hedges partially obscured multi-million mansions – though they left just enough of a view for visitors to gawk at stained windows, outer facades, and the eaves of second, third, or even fourth, guest houses.

This area of Paris was foreign to Rochefort. Envy and spite warred within him. Spite won out; after all, this was Athos’ neighborhood, and Rochefort could never admit envy of Athos. He curled his lip at an especially elaborate gazebo.

D’Artagnan had been leaning his head against the window; now he lolled his neck to look at Rochefort.

“Hey,” said d’Artagnan muzzily. It was the first time he’d said anything since Rochefort had practically poured him into the squad car with strict warnings not to puke on the seats. “Not that I’m complaining, but… why’re you helping me?”

“You underestimate my hatred of your ex.”

“ _You_ didn’t break up with him. What did Athos ever do to you?”

Rochefort snorted. “He existed.”

“You can’t hate someone for existing,” d’Artagnan argued, with the pedantry of the drunk.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” Rochefort snapped. He blew through a stop sign and took a turn with a sharp twist of the wheel. D’Artagnan made a slightly queasy sound. Rochefort ignored it. He’d shoot the boy if he was sick in Rochefort’s lap.

Then again, he’d shoot d’Artagnan anyway.

“All those years of seeing your precious Athos swanning about,” he said, accelerating down the dark, deserted country road. “He never even realized what he got just because of his wealth. People were falling over themselves to promote him. Fawning over him. It was sickening. And then just when I thought he’d get what was coming to him, he was never even arrested in his brother’s murder trial when it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he should be questioned first.”

“But Athos didn’t shoot his brother,” d’Artagnan said.

Rochefort ignored that. Milady had told him differently; and she would know, wouldn’t she? “He was embroiled in a scandal and he left without any consequences. And he came out of it squeaky-clean and with a new company, and a contract with the department to boot. He didn’t deserve any of it. He’s a no-talent suckup.”

He returned his attention to d’Artagnan, who was looking lost and small in the passenger seat.

“And you -- with your incessant yammering about Athos. Even after you broke up, you wouldn’t shut up about how broken-hearted you were. It’s enough to drive a man mad. Don’t you think of anything besides your love life? I don’t know how you ever became a cop at your rate.”

“That’s mean,” said d’Artagnan, crossing his arms. He slumped against the window again, staring out into the dark.

God, it felt good to finally tell the whelp what Rochefort thought of him and his insufferable ex. Rochefort wished he could do this with every officer who trod on every single one of his nerves. 

Unfortunately, the pool of despised coworkers was large enough that someone would eventually notice them disappearing.

“Meanwhile, I show up every day and do my job right, and I’m getting drudge work, leading interns around and patrolling the arcades. No respect, no gratitude. I worked on the straight and narrow for years before I realized that no one was going to reward me for my good work. No one rewards the good, honest cops who put in their time every day.”

“So why didn’t you quit?” d’Artagnan said.

Rochefort was on a roll. “I found I could reward myself what I was owed. To those with the higher willpower to resist using them, drugs are just another form of money. I get my bonus, the gangs get their coke back, and it all works out. I did the math; I only took enough evidence to compensate my time.”

“But that’s our case!” d’Artagnan sputtered. “The evidence gone missing!”

“Yes,” said Rochefort with exaggerated patience. “That’s why I was so pleased that Treville gave us the case.”

“But you can’t arrest yourself. Can you?”

“Of course I can’t. That’s why I’m going to find someone to take the fall for me.”

D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Who?”

What the hell. The doors were locked and the car was five minutes from the de la Fere estate. It wasn’t as if d’Artagnan would go telling anyone.

“You, d’Artagnan.”

Rochefort glanced over at d’Artagnan when the boy didn’t respond. D’Artagnan’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide and betrayed.

“What?” he finally croaked.

Rochefort spun the wheel and took a right. He was enjoying this: the smooth glide of the car on the dark, deserted streets; the knowledge that only he knew what waited for them at the estate; the gobsmacked look on d’Artagnan’s face.

It was high time that Rochefort finally enjoyed himself, after all the shit he’d been through.

“It was the perfect system. The logs were easy to manipulate, the gates easier. No one likes to point fingers at other cops; any questions of my work in the evidence locker were automatically shrugged off. And then that interfering bastard Treville had to go and get it into his head that rules needed to be ‘tightened’.” He quoted Treville sarcastically.

“It was better when I could pretend to find a gang of drug dealers and bring half of them in. To Treville, I had done my best and found a good number of perps; to the gang, I was a friend who warned them just after the nick of time, to no fault of my own. But Treville had to go on about taking down the gangs with full teams. I lost all my Conein gang connections that way.”

Rochefort gritted his teeth at the thought of all those wasted opportunities, all the lost money. The down payment he’d put on that summer home had been nothing without the rest of the money to back it up. Money that he’d been relying on the Conein gang for.

“The evidence locker is being watched. The gangs are taken down by ops that I can’t delay. My plans, the ones I’ve worked on for years, are going to shit.” Rochefort found himself gripping the leather steering wheel and deliberately relaxed his hands. “Once the case of the missing evidence is solved, it will all blow over and go back to normal. Then I can get what I deserve.”

When d’Artagnan spoke, it was in a small, tentative voice. “How will it be solved?”

The driveway to the de la Fere estate appeared in the glow of the headlights. Rochefort felt his tension ebb away. Here, his problems would be laid to rest. It was only a matter of time before all this was cleared up, and he could go back to working the system like the clever bastard he was.

“Luckily, you came along,” he said. He slowed as the driveway came closer. “You’re quite the young man, d’Artagnan.” He could give d’Artagnan that; Rochefort was gracious. “It wasn’t easy to turn the police department against you. But once Milady broke up you and Athos and you started acting like the world’s largest infant, it was easy to make you into the laughingstock of the whole precinct.” He tsked. “Assaulting suspects and dropping stolen drugs? What were you thinking?”

“You told me to,” d’Artagnan quavered.

“I was showing you how to beat the system. It’s not my fault if you couldn’t keep up. That nosy bitch Bonacieux did the rest. I knew she’d jump on the opportunity to ruin another officer. She’s always on my back about evidence logs and paperwork.” Besides Treville, Bonacieux was the biggest thorn in Rochefort’s side. She didn’t even act like a real woman: too bossy and unsmiling for Rochefort’s tastes.

Rochefort jerked the wheel hard and turned the car onto the long, gravel driveway of the de la Fere estate.

“Let me out,” d’Artagnan said shakily.

“You’re going nowhere I don’t want you to go.”

The estate loomed in front of them, a dark outline against the marginally lighter, moonlit night sky. Rochefort had never seen the thing in daylight, but it looked hideous enough to him now. In the dark, the house was a square, unadorned block of wood and stone, stripped of all endearing touches or flaws.

He could make out the flat stretch of manicured lawn that surrounded the large house. Untrimmed hedges lined the driveway, and further in toward the middle of the lawn Rochefort saw dark shapes that must be decorative gardens.

The lawn ended abruptly with a line of carefully pruned trees that curved around the lawn, rather like a round horseshoe. The tree line was a shade of grey in the dark of the night. Rochefort squinted at it for a moment, reassuring himself that it blocked sight of the house from any nosy neighbors.

The drive led directly to the front door. The sides of the house were hidden at obtuse angles; Rochefort could only see the blank-stared windows of the front. The headlights swept over the windows as Rochefort pulled around and parked. He popped the boot and turned the car off.

Before d’Artagnan could even think of running, Rochefort had the gun from his shoulder holster in his hand and pointed at the young man. He made sure that d’Artagnan could see it. “Get out of the car and go to the boot.”

“Is that a gun?” d’Artagnan asked, sounding almost affronted.

“Yes; and if you don’t do as I say, I’ll blow your brains out, the stains be damned.”

Rochefort couldn’t clearly see d’Artagnan’s face in the dark, but judging by his scramble from the car, it seemed that d’Artagnan had finally realized the danger he was in.

Rochefort popped the boot and joined d’Artagnan at the back of the car. The cold winter air was crisp, touching the bare skin at his throat and wrists.

He kept the gun steady. “Unload those,” he ordered, gesturing to the containers of gasoline packed into the boot. “Pour the gas on the house.”

D’Artagnan turned to look at Rochefort, his eyes wide in the dark. “But—“

“I would gladly shoot you in the head now, d’Artagnan. The only reason you’re alive is because I don’t want to spill gas on myself. Now. If you want to breathe a few minutes longer, pour the gasoline on the house.”

“I won’t tell,” d’Artagnan said, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to promise. “If you just let me go, I won’t tell anyone. About anything. I swear.”

Rochefort’s finer twitched toward the trigger. The boy was taking too long. But Rochefort knew how to twist the knife.

“They wouldn’t believe you anyway,” he said, the words and the gun like a promise aimed at d’Artagnan’s heart. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the past few days. Right now you’re a heartbroken, dirty cop. It will be easy to believe that you’ve been stealing from the evidence lockers from the first month you started working in Paris. And no one will think twice when your body turns up on the lawn of the burned de la Fere estate, a bag of coke in your pocket and your ex’s burned remains inside the house.”

He relished the shocked silence from d’Artagnan.

“You—“ d’Artagnan choked out. “You can’t!”

Rochefort laughed. “I can. I am.”

"Captain Treville will suspect you."

"Not after your shocking behavior this week. You’ve been dumped and suspended; and now you’ve driven a squad car to your ex-boyfriend’s expensive house and killed him in it. Besides, your handcuffs on Athos’ body will be very convincing.”

“My handcuffs!”

“You should really look after your possessions,” Rochefort drawled. “It was too easy to take the cuffs from your desk.”

“What?” It was barely a whisper. The dark outline of d’Artagnan’s head turned to look at the house. “Athos – you--”

He threw himself at Rochefort. It was a clumsy attempt; Rochefort easily backhanded him and sent d’Artagnan sprawling onto the dew-wet grass.

“Don’t you remember the first rule of suspects?” Rochefort asked, as if they were on another case. “A spouse or significant other is the perpetrator ninety percent of the time.”

D’Artagnan clutched his face and muttered something.

“What?” Rochefort demanded.

“I said, I just wanted some diamonds from the safe,” d’Artagnan spat. He raised his head. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Rochefort clicked the safety off. “Gasoline. On the house. Now. I’m tired of pussyfooting around.”

D’Artagnan rose slowly, his head bowed. He hefted two canisters from the boot. One in each hand, he turned from Rochefort and left the gravel drive for the grassy lawn that surrounded the house.

Rochefort followed d’Artagnan at a few paces’ distance, keeping the gun trained on d’Artagnan. The ground was strangely springy underfoot, as if it was marshland instead of lawn. D’Artagnan set one container down and splashed the other half-heartedly on the base of the house. The wooden shingles and timbers accepted the liquid gratefully, staining dark in an instant.

The flames would only scorch the stone façade, but a good half of the house would go up in a blaze. By the time the firefighters were alerted and got the water lines to work in this cold weather, it would be too late to save anything.

D’Artagnan turned to Rochefort abruptly. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re really an empty-headed farm boy, aren’t you? Finish that fucking canister and do another one. Get the back of the house.”

“You took my handcuffs,” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes, you dumb fuck.”

“And you’re going to kill me.”

“Yes.”

“Why here? I could have committed suicide in my apartment or something.”

Rochefort’s lip twisted up in a moue of distaste. “I would have preferred a more accessible location. But this part of the plan was already set in stone. The location was non-negotiable.”

D’Artagnan stared at him, an empty container dangling from his fingers. “Who set it in stone?”

Behind Rochefort, the front door of the estate opened. A heel stepped onto the stone steps with a click. He could feel Milady’s gaze scoring a hole in the back of his head.

He smiled. “The lady herself, of course.”

* * * * *

Athos could smell gasoline.

The library’s windows faced the driveway. He tried to turn to see out of them, but the handcuffs stopped his movements.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The stench of gasoline filled his nose and throat, threatening to choke him. He struggled against the nausea, throat working, before he forced himself to relax. Slow, shallow breaths...

He would endure. He could last a little longer.

“Diamond,” he whispered, just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

He could have to trust d’Artagnan to judge the right moment.

* * * * *

Constance sat on her haunches, her back against the house. She could feel the shingles scrape against her bulletproof vest.

She touched the earpiece in her ear, then her vest and her holster, in a compulsive check.

She tilted her head back as if to watch the sky, but her eyes were closed. The stars dotting the veil of the sky, the crisp line of trees at the edge of the yard, they were all gone. Her world had narrowed down to the voice in her earpiece.

 _Come on_ , she thought. _Say the word. Give us the sign._

Constance flexed her calf muscles, ready to spring up and run.

 _Say ‘adventure,’ d’Artagnan_.

* * * * *

D’Artagnan stared over Rochefort’s shoulder at the woman descending the steps of the house. Until now he had only seen Milady in pictures and security footage. It was dark, but he could recognize the curve of her cheek and the way she cocked her head at the sight of d’Artagnan. She was wearing some kind of dress that crinkled softly as she walked toward them.

D’Artagnan kept his body angled toward Rochefort. Aiming the camera hidden on the front of his uniform wasn’t an exact science. He hoped that he was capturing both Rochefort and Milady, but if it came down to it, he’d rather have eyes on the man pointing a gun at him.

Rochefort didn’t turn around to watch Milady approach. He kept his gaze and his gun trained on d’Artagnan.

“Didn’t I tell you that cops get by with the right connections?” he said. “This is mine.”

D’Artagnan did his best to inject the right combination of confusion and bewilderment into his tone. Rochefort was enjoying monologuing as long as it proved that he, Rochefort, was craftier than d’Artagnan. “You’re working with her? But… why?”

“We have similar goals,” Rochefort said. “She wanted Athos dead, and I wanted you framed. As it happens, our goals aligned. It’s why she chose this house, you see. Some people are so tied to the past.” He chuckled.

“Glibly said for a man who had to use a boy to clean up his mess,” said Milady, coming up behind Rochefort. Her voice was sharp and cutting. Rochefort twitched.

“Well?” Milady demanded. “Did you do your part?” Her gaze raked over d’Artagnan.

As she turned away, obviously dismissing him, the winter winds skimmed over the flat length of estate lawn and touched d'Artagnan with fleeting icy hands. He shivered. He felt young and unprotected, his hands too large for his body, the gas canister hanging uselessly from his fingers.

“I did mine,” Rochefort said shortly. He obviously didn’t appreciate Milady taking over. D’Artagnan eyed him warily: the glee with which Rochefort had recounted his plans was hardening into anger. The dynamics of the scene had changed.

He remembered what Athos had told him before all this had started.

_“Getting Milady will put your mind at rest,” d’Artagnan had said._

_“Not if you are hurt in the process,” Athos had said, white-faced and looking as scared as d’Artagnan had ever seen him. “Nothing is worth that loss to me. If you do this, you must look after yourself, d’Artagnan. I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”_

_“I have Constance and Captain Treville watching my back,” d’Artagnan had promised. “And I have you.”_

_“Do what you must,” Athos had said. “But to a point.”_

D’Artagnan had the codeword, ‘adventure.’ But he needed as much evidence as possible. He needed to pin Milady with as much as he could. For Athos’ sake.

“Did you take care of your part, sweetheart?” Rochefort was asking Milady. He gestured to the house. D’Artagnan’s eyes followed his hand automatically. Athos was in there, alone and possibly hurt, and d’Artagnan couldn’t get to him. Not yet.

Milady drew herself up with a rustle of fabric. “Don’t test me,” she said, icily calm. “My business is settled. I could shoot you on the spot and leave you here to rot along with your doomed protégé.”

Rochefort stared at her, frozen, obviously wondering whether it was worth it to move his gun from d’Artagnan and aim it at Milady instead.

Milady smiled. A rustle of fabric revealed a gun clasped in her hand, hidden in the folds of her dress. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that,” she continued. “Now: is he ready?” She glanced at d’Artagnan again. Her gaze was impersonal, as if d’Artagnan was an appliance she needed assembled.

“I’ve got another canister in the car,” Rochefort muttered.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Rochefort stared at her.

Milady nodded toward the car with a graceful raise of her chin. “Go. I’ve got him covered.” Her slim arm shook off the folds of her dress and raised her weapon at d’Artagnan.

Rochefort reluctantly holstered his gun and went to the boot of the squad car. He grabbed the last container of gasoline and hauled it over to the house.

D’Artagnan twisted his body to let his camera catch the crime. Rochefort splashed the contents on the house, and cursed when it fell on his shoes and trousers.

Milady paid him no attention. Her head was turned toward d’Artagnan. “Poor boy,” she murmured. “It’s not your fault that you got caught up in this. I quite understand how Athos can pull a person in. He’s quite magnetic, isn’t he?”

D’Artagnan didn’t answer. Milady took a step forward. Her aim didn’t waver.

“We could have had the most interesting talk about him,” Milady continued. “I could have told you how he would break your heart. You would have seen his cruelty in time.” She sighed. “But Rochefort wanted you for his own plans.”

D’Artagnan dared to speak. If he could give her a second chance, he owed it to Athos to try. “So let me go,” he said. “You won’t have to worry about me telling anyone.”

She took a step closer. They were face-to-face. Her features were almost indistinguishable in the dark, but her pale eyes glinted. “It’s not your fault that you got attached to Athos. But he broke my heart, and he needs to understand what that pain is like.”

D’Artagnan didn’t mean to say it, but it spilled from his lips in a whisper: “Let me see him one last time.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She did, absurdly, sound sorry. “Athos can burn. He deserves it. But you stay out here. We need your body to be intact and recognizable. You understand, don’t you?”

D’Artagnan swallowed. He could practically hear Constance demanding for his extraction. “Rochefort said there were diamonds in the safe,” he said. “You can have those.”

“Nice try,” said Milady. “I already have all the prizes I need.”

* * * *

“Sir, radio one just said ‘diamon--”

“I know what he said,” Captain Treville barked. “I’m listening.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was silence in the surveillance van. The other techies twitched and studiously avoided looking at the captain.

“Bonacieux,” Captain Treville snapped.

“Still waiting, sir,” said Detective Bonacieux.

“Get ready.”

“Sir? Did he say ‘adventure’?”

“No. But I’m not trusting a first-year greenhorn to know when he needs to be extracted. On my signal, Bonacieux. Ready your team.”

* * * *

Rochefort, still cursing his stained clothing, rejoined d’Artagnan and Milady, breaking their locked gazes. “Let’s shoot him now,” he said. “Hold him down. I can make it look like a suicide.”

“No,” said Milady. “I want him to know that he killed Athos.” She stepped closer to d’Artagnan, until he could feel the heat of her breath in the cold air. “And I want Athos to hear the bullet that stops his lover’s heart forever.”

Milady shoved d’Artagnan in the chest, unbalancing him and causing him to drop the canister. He toppled over, landing on one knee on the wet, cold ground.

Milady walked around d’Artagnan in slow, patient steps, until she was at his back. He heard the slide and click of a weapon being holstered.

D’Artagnan swallowed. He didn’t think this was what Athos had meant when he’d told d’Artagnan to do what it took, to a point. But he had to wait. He had to let Milady run her course. If he stopped her before she really tried to kill Athos, it would only be contemplation of murder, it wouldn’t be viable, the courts would throw it out --

Milady grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward, unbalancing him again and forcing him to both knees. She kept her hand on his shoulder and leaned forward. Her hair spilled over his cheek, tickling his eye.

“Poor Athos,” she whispered in his ear. “He couldn’t save his brother all those years ago, and now he won’t be able to save his boyfriend either.”

Her other hand forced something into d’Artagnan’s hand. She grabbed that hand and forced it up to eye-level. He saw what the object was: a matchbox.

Milady grabbed his other hand and manipulated his fingers until he grasped a match and held it against the scored striking surface. She positioned his fingers like someone teaching a child how to light a match.

 _I have to wait until she lights the match._  D’Artagnan's eyes stayed fixed on the matchbox in Milady’s hands.

“What do you think?” Milady murmured in d’Artagnan’s ear, in a grotesque parody of adoration. “Why don’t you throw the match? After all, it will be your name they write up in the police reports.”

She moved d’Artagnan’s hands, his skin pinching under her grip, and struck the match against the box. The match ignited.

“Well,” said d’Artagnan weakly, “I suppose to die would be an awfully big adven--”

Constance rounded the side of the house and shouted, “Freeze!”

The lights mounted on the roof of the house clicked on, washing the scene in shades of red. The house, Milady’s hands, the soaked grass and glistening gasoline; all illuminated in bloody color.

Milady froze, her fingers tightening on d’Artagnan’s. The flame burned d’Artagnan’s fingers and he jerked. He struggled to bring the flame to his lips, fighting Milady's grip, and blew it out.

Constance advanced on Rochefort like a warrior angel, the light turning her auburn hair to copper. Her ponytail bobbed as she strode across the lawn, her gun pointed at Rochefort. Her cheeks were flush with adrenaline, her chest heaving under her bulletproof vest. The figures of her team spread out behind her like an army of shadows.

“Hands in the air,” Constance ordered. “Rochefort, you’re under arrest for attempted murder and--”

D’Artagnan didn’t hear the rest of the charges. Milady had let go of his hands and was straightening. She was trying to get away.

D’Artagnan scrambled to his feet and turned to face Milady, ready to find her gun pointed at him. “Put your weapon down,” he ordered, and then stopped short. The matchbox lay abandoned on the ground, the matches scattered at Milady’s feet. The only thing in Milady’s hands was a cigarette lighter. 

Someone at d’Artagnan’s back cocked a gun. Someone else called an order. It was all white noise to him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Milady’s small tool of destruction.

“I’ve been planning this too long to see it fall apart,” Milady said. She was heaving breaths, but she still managed to bare her teeth in a snarling grin. Her face was illuminated red. She backed up until she was standing against the wall of the house. “I didn’t get this far in my career without learning to have a backup plan. You still lose.”

She looked at straight at d’Artagnan as she clicked the lighter on and held it to the gasoline-soaked shingles.

He lunged for her. “No!”

The fire lit. 

The wood of the house went up with a gleeful crackle, as if the fire had been just waiting to leap from the lighter and was delighting in its freedom. The lick of flame caught at the dry parts of the house and spread eagerly, turning from flame to blaze in mere seconds.

Milady screamed and snatched her hand back. The flames had licked at her arm. D’Artagnan grabbed Milady and pulled her back from the house. Milady went with him easily, her screams turning to breathless giggles. He didn’t know if he was saving her or if he wanted to tear into her, rip her apart until she stopped laughing.

Someone was shouting. D’Artagnan thought he recognized Constance’s voice.

Hands tired to wrench Milady out of d’Artagnan’s hold. He tightened his grip automatically.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis’ voice ordered. “Let her go.”

D’Artagnan looked up. An unfamiliar person wearing an Interpol vest was holding Milady’s arms while another patted her down. Aramis stood behind the Interpol agent. His usual leather was gone, replaced with a bulletproof vest. His eyes were fixed intently on d’Artagnan’s.

D’Artagnan got the message. One wrong move at this point could throw their entire case out of the courtroom.

“Right,” he said. He let Milady go and stepped away. He could smell smoke. Something hot shone on his back.

Milady kept her eyes on him as she was immobilized. “It doesn’t matter, d’Artagnan,” she said. “I’ve won. You’ve lost – everything.”

Sirens sounded at the end of the long driveway. The long, mournful wail of a fire truck echoed across the expanse of lawn.

“Not yet,” he said. He wished it sounded cool, but his hands and his voice were shaking, and the house was burning, and Athos was inside the flames.

He turned to the house. The flames had spread to cover the entire front of the house, clawing at every bit of wood they could find. The roof was starting to spark.

Which room was Athos in?

The lights of the fire truck flashed across the house, tingeing the flames blue and crimson. Could Athos afford to wait for the truck?

A window exploded.

Aramis said d’Artagnan’s name, but d’Artagnan wasn’t listening anymore. He pulled off his uniform jacket. He tore open his shirt and clawed at the tape that held the backup mic wire to his torso. He dropped the wire to the ground; they could find it later.

Without another thought, d’Artagnan held his jacket to his mouth and ran for the door.

He wrenched the door open and, ignoring the shouts behind him and the sharp gaze that prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, he disappeared into the burning house.

* * * * *

**Earlier that week**

Athos was locking up the office when he heard his name called. He looked up and saw d’Artagnan meandering down the sidewalk, licking industriously at an ice cream cone.

D’Artagnan waved vaguely at Athos, his eyes crossed to focus on the cone.

Athos pocketed the office keys and met d’Artagnan on the sidewalk. It was better he go to d’Artagnan, Athos thought, than d’Artagnan accidentally brain himself in an ice cream-related injury.

“Did you walk here all the way from the precinct?” Athos asked. He accepted the cone when d’Artagnan held it out to him. He took a few experimental licks. Vanilla bean. Not bad.

“Yeah, something…” D’Artagnan trailed off. Athos looked up and saw d’Artagnan’s gaze fixed on Athos’ tongue. Hiding a laugh, Athos took another lick of ice cream.

D’Artagnan shook himself. “Uhhh, something weird.” He touched the corner of his mouth. “You have a little…” He leaned forward and licked Athos’ lip. He surveyed Athos’ face. “Much better.”

Athos raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan. “Are you going to leave it there?”

D’Artagnan grinned and kissed Athos properly. Athos closed his eyes and enjoyed the indulgence of d’Artagnan’s mouth, warm on Athos’ lips. D’Artagnan shuffled closer, nipping at Athos’ lip, and jostled the ice cream. Athos broke off the kiss quickly to right the cone.

“Good save,” said d’Artagnan. He licked his lips absently, tasting Athos and vanilla bean. “Oh, yeah--” He dug around in his pocket. “I have something for you. Something besides the ice cream you’re demolishing,” he added pointedly.

Athos crunched into the cone with no remorse.

D’Artagnan held out a folded piece of paper. “It was in my wallet when I left work,” he explained. “I didn’t see him put it there, but it’s in Captain Treville’s writing.”

Athos took the note curiously. It read, “Athos Dock 2200 GOE.” No signature, but Athos recognized the scrawl.

“He didn’t say anything to you today?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No. Weird, right?”

“More than weird,” Athos murmured. “G.O.E. – gag order effective. He doesn’t want us talking about this.”

D’Artagnan insisted on coming to the rendezvous, even though the note hadn’t technically been for him. He hovered under the awning of a hotel across the street from the pub called The Dock, while Athos went in.

The pub was noisy, full of rowdy groups and moody loners alike. A game was on over the bar, and a particularly loud group at a table cheered whenever, Athos presumed, something exciting happened.

Treville sat at the bar. He didn’t look around when Athos slid onto the seat next to him.

“Interpol called me today,” Treville said to his glass of sherry. “You’ve heard about the Cardinal, I expect?”

Athos tensed. The last time he had heard about Interpol and the Cardinal at once had been during his then-wife’s trial. Interpol had uncovered more than had ever wanted to know about her connections to the crime boss who was famous for keeping his own hands clean by hiring other criminals to carry out his dirty work.

The Cardinal had only gone to jail on tax evasion. With his release imminent, the media was full of old stories about his glory days. The unauthorized biography had just hit bookshelves. If rumors were true, then Captain Treville featured prominently in some sections of the Cardinal’s close escapes from justice.

Athos made a noise to show his understanding.

“Interpol thinks his old disciples are going to try to impress him. Big scores. You know who used to work for him.”

Athos did, indeed. He pretended to peruse a bowl of peanuts. “They think she’s coming back?”

“My office is bugged,” Treville said casually.

Athos jolted. That implied a leak inside the office, unless Milady herself had swanned into Treville’s office. He was suddenly grateful that d'Artagnan had told him about Treville’s note outside the agency.

Treville nudged his phone toward Athos on the bar top and casually brought up a photo. Athos had to squint to realize what he was seeing: a cropped photo of a neck and shoulder, pale and dirty, with a symbol carved into the dead flesh.

His stomach sank.

“Know it?” Treville asked without looking at him.

Athos straightened up and looked away. “Yes.”

“I recognized the symbol from, erm.” Treville cleared his throat. “Evidence from her trial.”

Athos understood. When Interpol had entered the scene after Thomas’ death, they had taken almost everything of hers, including her personal notes to Athos, from the house in the name of evidence. Athos hadn’t protested. He hadn’t needed to see the flower she used to scribble as her signature on her love notes to him. He hadn’t even returned to the house.

“We can assume she’s coming after you.” Treville finally glanced at Athos. “She’s had months to plan her attack. We have less than a night to give Interpol a fully-fledged plan to counter her.”

 _We._ Treville was willing to throw his entire weight behind Athos, to justify him to Interpol, to stay up all night forming a plan; all to give Athos this second chance at justice.

Athos didn’t need more than a second to deliberate. “I want my team on this.”

*

He met d’Artagnan under the awning across the street. Treville had promised to leave close to an hour later, to throw off anyone who might have their eye out.

D’Artagnan welcomed him with a concerned look and a kiss nudged against his cheek. Athos leaned into the touch greedily, soaking up the touch while he could.

“What did Treville have to say?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos leaned his forehead against d’Artagnan’s and closed his eyes. He needed to be close to d’Artagnan, but he was too cowardly to look in his eyes when Athos broke the news.

“Milady’s back,” he whispered.

D’Artagnan stiffened. After a moment, he raised a hand and gently combed it through Athos’ hair. “Are… are you… okay?”

Athos clenched his eyes shut. He could feel himself unspooling already, coming undone at the thought of d’Artagnan leaving him.

“I think we need to break up,” he said.

*

“I still think it’s a stupid idea,” d’Artagnan fumed, crossing his arms. He looked out of place in Constance’s tidy apartment. He looked ready to pounce or fight, not pace back in forth in Constance floral-themed living room.

“Don’t knock over that table, d’Artagnan; it’s ornamental,” Constance said. “I invited you here because we know it’s not bugged. That doesn’t give you free reign of my furniture.” She straightened the vase of flowers on the table behind d’Artagnan and pushed him toward the sofa. “Go sit with Athos.”

“Hmph,” said d’Artagnan, but he sat and cuddled furiously into Athos’ side.

Across the table, Porthos was hunched over in a laughably small armchair. He shuffled through a pile of papers in his lap. Athos caught a glimpse of Milady’s face on one of the sheets and looked away.

“I can’t believe she got away with all this,” Porthos said, flipping over a page with Interpol’s watermark stamped across it. “More than fourteen countries, no arrests, only a few screengrabs from security cameras…”

“She started young, too,” Constance said. “She had more time to break the records.” She bent over the table and scanned a few sheets. In true Constance fashion, she had already memorized them; but she liked her information to be printed out, collated, and color-coded.

“It’s almost pitiable,” said Constance. “Growing up poor, having to do anything to survive, finding a way out running with bad crews…”

“I grew up like that,” said Porthos abruptly, “and you don’t see me going around messing up people’s lives and murdering.” He looked around the room challengingly. “She wasn’t black and trans either, so you won’t see me giving her a pass.”

“Understandable,” Athos said.

“I don’t understand why we’re not just arresting her,” d’Artagnan interjected angrily. He was tense against Athos’ side. “Captain Treville traced the listening device to its source, didn’t he? And Aramis and he are already at the Pavillon de la Reine. Why aren’t they arresting her before she murders any more people?”

“Captain Treville and Porthos are on recon only,” Constance said firmly. “We have nothing to charge her with. At this point, we have no evidence for the murder.”

“What about that mark on Forgeron’s neck?” d’Artagnan demanded.

Constance shook her head. “Too circumstantial. She’d be out in a few hours, what with her caliber of lawyers.”

“There’s another factor to consider,” Athos said quietly. He tentatively smoothed a hand over d’Artagnan’s hair. “The bugs.”

When she was angry, Constance involuntarily flared her nostrils. Now they flared like bellbottoms in a disco. “Unless Milady walked through the bullpen and into Captain Treville’s office without me seeing her – which I highly doubt – someone in the office is working as her spy. Captain Treville doesn’t want to move in on Milady until he know which of our people is a traitor, and I agree.”

“What about janitorial staff?” d’Artagnan asked mulishly.

“That’s where our office comes in,” said Athos. “We don’t hire cleaning staff. The two devices in the agency suggest someone with a plausible reason for being in the agency while we were out. It could have been someone posing as a client,” he allowed, “but more likely it was an officer who felt they could provide an excuse if they were caught.”

“Either way,” said d’Artagnan, “we should catch them, not break up.”

A pounding on the door made them all look up. Constance darted to the peephole and opened the door after peering through.

“The captain’s lead on the bug was good,” Aramis said, taking off his coat. “You’ll never guess what we found.”

Athos leaned forward. “She’s at the Pavillon de la Reine?”

Treville shrugged out of his coat as well. He stalked to the chair next to Porthos’ armchair and sat heavily.

Aramis closed the door behind him. “You’re ruining the lead-up, Athos. Here’s how it was: we staked out the lobby for a while and made sure you-know-who wasn’t coming down any time soon. Then we sidled over to the reception desk and asked for the head of security. He turned out to be a delightful man named Frederic--”

“Get to the point,” growled Porthos.

“I’m getting to it. Frederic remembers all the visitors to the hotel, you see, especially when you’ve got a bit of cash to help jog his memory.” Aramis looked at Athos. “It’s packed lunches at the office for a while, I’m afraid. I had to jog Frederic’s memory quite a bit. The woman in the penthouse suite pays very well for the staff to forget her.” He paused. “And to forget her visitor.”

“Visitor?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis sobered, the enjoyment of storytelling falling from his eyes. “A man with dirty blonde hair, blue eyes; beard and mustache; five-foot nine; late forties. Dressed in expensive suits and signed the guest registry as ‘R’.”

“Rochefort,” Constance breathed. She looked at Treville.

“Yes,” Treville said heavily. “The security footage confirmed it. We already had our eye on Rochefort, but to know he’s colluding with a known murderer…”

Athos looked at d’Artagnan, who was chewing his lip and staring at the floor.

“There’s too much riding on this to charge in now,” Athos told d’Artagnan quietly. “The department needs to do this carefully.”

“What part of us breaking up is going to help that?”

Athos paused, gathering the words; gathering the courage to reveal this part of his past. D’Artagnan shuffled closer to Athos on the sofa, pressing his thigh to Athos’ and giving him strength.

“Milady… she needs to hurt me. No, let me finish,” Athos said as d’Artagnan drew a breath. “It’s what she’s here for. The Cardinal aside, what she really wants is… justice. Her own brand of justice. She thinks she was wronged when I ‘let’ her be arrested.” His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “She lost her anonymity and her protectors when her trial went public.”

“Been following her career, have you?” Aramis asked, overly casual.

Athos met his eyes. “Not as you’re thinking. Her lawyers have kept me updated on her status. They thought it would garner sympathy from me.”

“Fat chance,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Regardless of my opinion, Milady believes that I owe her what she lost. If she’s anything like she was, then she’ll want me to suffer the same indignities she suffered. The public humiliation, the loss of wealth, the spiraling.”

“She wants you powerless,” said Porthos. He looked worried. Athos knew that Porthos was thinking of Athos’ married life. Athos’ reference to the way Milady used to treat him hadn’t slipped past unnoticed.

“Milady preys on weakness,” Athos said. He turned to d’Artagnan again. “She’ll be watching me closely. She probably has eyes on me already.” He shuddered at the thought of her eyes on him, and him unknowing until now. “If we’re broken up she’ll know I’m vulnerable, and she’ll come for me. That’s when we can set up the sting.”

D’Artagnan looked down. He carefully took Athos’ hands in his own, brushing his thumbs over Athos’ knuckles with careful tenderness. “I don’t like it.” D’Artagnan addressed Athos’ hands. “I don’t like the idea of being on the sidelines when you’re drawing her attention. We don’t even know the rest of her plan beyond the Musée--” His voice tightened with frustration, and he broke off.

“I know what I’m fighting against,” Athos said. He squeezed d’Artagnan’s hands. “I’ll have you – all of you – at my back. She won’t win this time.”

D’Artagnan looked Athos in the eye. “Is this so important to you?”

Athos took a deep breath. “She haunts me, d’Artagnan. I need to know – to know--”

“If she still cares about you?” d’Artagnan guessed.

“No,” Athos said immediately. “I need to know – I can’t help but think that I could have stopped her.”

“I know you feel guilty about Thomas,” d’Artagnan said. “I can’t ever guess at how much that hurts. But everything else she did, the murders and stealing, those had nothing to do with you. You didn’t even know about it. You couldn’t have stopped her if you tried.”

Athos nodded once. “But I can stop her now.”

D’Artagnan’s gaze darted back and forth between Athos’ eyes. He saw only resolve and trust there.

Finally, d’Artagnan sighed and raised Athos’ hands to his lips. He kissed the back of each hand. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll break up.”

Athos kissed d’Artagnan hard, tangling their fingers between them and trying to wordlessly convey all the love that was overwhelming him. D’Artagnan surged to meet Athos, giving as good as he got. 

“Thank you,” Athos whispered against d’Artagnan’s lips.

Treville cleared his throat. Athos and d’Artagnan broke apart and turned to the others. Porthos was picking at his nails, Constance was staring at the table, and Treville was looking fixedly over Athos’ head.

Aramis hummed. “I’d give it an eight out of ten,” he said. “Next time angle it a bit more this way, will you?” Porthos smacked him.

Treville ignored this byplay. “How far are you willing to play into her hands?”

“Hopefully before she kills someone else,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan spoke up, one hand still tight in Athos’ own. “Why don’t leak the news about Milady being back to the media? ‘Cause you know they’ll latch onto anything that spikes ratings. And then once she knows you know she’s back, she’ll stop murdering people. Maybe.”

“We’ve got a good idea of where she’s headed, what with Forgeron being the head of security at the Musée,” said Porthos, looking around at the others.

“My family donated part of their collection to that museum,” Athos said. He caught himself a moment later. “Of course – she would know.”

“Letting her get away with whatever she’s after at the museum would raise attention,” Aramis said. “Media attention, I mean.”

“And it would humiliate you,” Porthos added.

“What about the bugs?” Aramis suggested. “We know she’s listening to us. Why not give her something to listen to?”

Athos nodded. “We’ll keep up appearances of being a step behind. In front of Rochefort, too.”

Treville rose from his chair. “We _are_ a step behind.” He pointed a stern finger at the three private detectives in turn. “You’re all wearing wires at all times. Non-negotiable. If this is all we know of Milady’s plan, I need a way to hear you at all times and change our plans accordingly.”

Until now, Constance had been staring at the papers on the table and absentmindedly chewing the end of her pencil. “Vulnerable,” she muttered.

She looked up. “Captain! What about Rochefort?”

Treville’s expressions grew cloudy. “Obviously we’ll keep an eye on him as well. If we can nab him when we get Milady--”

“No, sir, I meant: what about our,” she glanced at d’Artagnan. “Our plan for him?”

Treville stared at her for a moment, then rocked back on his heels. “Oh, I see.” He looked at d’Artagnan, who squirmed under his stare.

Treville turned back to Constance. “It would be tricky.”

“But it’s the perfect opening,” Constance said. “If d’Artagnan’s just broken up – and you know how much he talks about Athos--”

“Hey!” squawked d’Artagnan.

Treville raised a hand for silence. He paced around Constance’s coffee table in an absurd mirror of his usual pacing circuit around his desk.

Finally stopped and pinned d’Artagnan with a grave stare. “I might have a job for you, d’Artagnan. You wouldn’t have to be on the outside of this operation – in fact, you’d be on the very inside. But it would be deep cover, with no access to anyone in this room. It involves work essential to this case and to the department.”

Athos looked at Aramis and Porthos, and saw in their eyes the same uneasiness he felt. Treville was making an effort to entice d’Artagnan, who for his part was alert and intrigued.

“We’ve been tracking Rochefort for some time,” Treville continued. “We suspected him of, ah, liberal handling of some evidence taken from drug arrests. Upon investigation, we uncovered a possible connection between Rochefort and some gang members. But Rochefort has connections. He carries his family’s name. He’s got friends in most levels of the court system. If we arrested him on what we’ve got now, there wouldn’t be a trial. I’d probably be forced to reinstate him in the force, as a favor to some goddamn brown-nosing politician.”

Constance broke in, giving Treville a moment to collect his anger. “The thing is, Rochefort knows we opened a case about missing evidence. He knows it’s going to come back to him unless he does something about it.”

Treville nodded curtly. “In his situation, there’s one obvious choice if he wants to keep his status quo: to frame someone else. Detective Bonacieux and I have been planning an undercover operation involving an intern. The intern,” he gave d’Artagnan a significant look, “would have to appear as a likely scapegoat for Rochefort. They’d be vulnerable, alone, possibly rejected by coworkers and friends.”

Constance exchanged a glance with Treville. “We’d been thinking of using Intern Dusson, but as it is…”

Athos felt the blood drain from his face. He spoke before he realized it. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet,” d’Artagnan protested. “But I think it sounds like a good idea.”

“You can’t,” Athos said desperately. “You don’t know the danger involved – there are too many variables. Rochefort could figure you out--”

“All that’s true with you and Milady,” said d’Artagnan. His jaw jutted out stubbornly. “I want to help. You’re putting your life in danger, so I can too.”

“That’s not a fair equation.”

D’Artagnan addressed Treville. “What would I have to do?”

“You’d have to visibly reject police procedures,” Treville said immediately. “Give the impression that you’re not satisfied with your position. Not just to Rochefort, but the entire department. Rochefort would need to believe that he could get away with framing you.”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “It doesn’t sound very heroic.”

“It will take a lot of groveling,” Treville said bluntly. “You know the kind of man Rochefort is – he’ll need praise and a lot of room to boast. We need inarguable evidence that he’s crooked. You’d wear a body cam at all times. You’d have to goad him into admitting, on tape, that he has connections to the gangs and that he’s stolen evidence.”

“Once I get him going, though, I bet he’d talk his arse off,” d’Artagnan said thoughtfully.

Athos found his breath. “Stop. Why are you talking about this like you’ve already agreed?” He glared at Treville. “Why are you pushing this?”

D’Artagnan turned to Athos. “This is my decision, Athos. If you’re need to catch Milady, then I need to do my part in helping you. This is the best way I can help.” He smiled weakly. “Besides, I need something to keep my mind of my recent breakup with my boyfriend.”

Athos’s heart trembled like a glass window before a storm. With one more gust of wind, it would shatter. But he swallowed and shored up his defenses, and nodded. “If you want to do this… then I understand.”

“Getting Milady will put your mind at rest.” D’Artagnan’s face was intent and so young. Athos wanted to smooth away the worry lines forming around d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“Not if you are hurt in the process. Nothing is worth that loss to me. If you do this, you must look after yourself, d’Artagnan. I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

“I have Constance and Captain Treville watching my back,” d’Artagnan promised. “And I have you.”

“Do what you must,” Athos said. “But to a point. If you’re ever in danger, call it off. At once. Understand?”

He held d’Artagnan’s eye until d’Artagnan nodded.

“Good point,” Constance interrupted. “We’ll need code words and surveillance on both of you. If you’re ever in danger, do what Athos said: call it off immediately. That goes for you, too, Athos.”

Treville just looked at Athos. “Can you handle this?”

“As long as we get her,” Athos said grimly, looking at d’Artagnan and thinking of the dark days ahead, “all of this will be worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?? Did it post? Have I updated ten times? Is this text just spinning out into the vast space of Things Lost To the Internet? Are aliens capturing data in the moments between posting and publishing in order to support their theses on earth-dweller interweb culture?? Aliens, how do you feel about this development? Tell me honestly. Too few antennae?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that this Big Bang piece officially spans two months and exceeds the NaNoWriMo word goals, it’s finally time to put this baby to sleep. Here, hold this baby. [runs away]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Fatalistic, borderline-suicidal thoughts; mention of past assault; an alcoholic relapsing; emotional abuse; mention of police brutality; drug mention; arson/being trapped in a fire.
> 
> To apologize for the sudden genre change, I'm giving you all a behind-the-scenes view of this whole deal. Imagine the Ocean's Eleven soundtrack playing as you read this. Or better yet, **listen to the mix I put together for this fic! You can find it[here](http://8tracks.com/robinlorin/i-own-every-bell-that-tolls-me) on 8tracks. **

**Earlier that week**

There was only so much planning they could do.

They knew the bare-bones outline of Milady’s whereabouts and her objective, but nothing else. They didn’t know how Rochefort was helping her, or whether Milady truly would go after Athos’ family’s currency dies in the Musée. They certainly had no way of knowing that either would take the bait that Athos and d’Artagnan would dangle in front of the cameras.

Nevertheless, the sky outside Constance’s apartment windows was turning gray with the faint light of approaching daybreak before the group within was done with its re-hashing of various plans, back-up plans, worst-case scenarios, and code words.

Treville grimly downed his eighth cup of coffee as Constance reshuffled her papers one last time. Aramis slumped against the arm of Porthos’ chair. On the sofa, d'Artagnan and Athos were still pressed hip-to-hip. They clung to each other, clutching each other’s hands, still and tense, as if staying there would keep time from moving forward.

Porthos sat back and rubbed at his eyes. “So,” he said. “Lemme get this straight. We’re splitting up. We don’t get to talk to each other. One of us falls into the bottle. One of us turns dirty. We argue all the time and we can never talk about the case. We have to go along with whatever our enemies cook up. And _we can’t talk to each other_ ,” he stressed again.

Athos was silent. D’Artagnan looked down, fidgeting with Athos’ fingers. They both knew that the whole setup was chancy.

Aramis filled the silence. “Sounds about right.”

Porthos sighed. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

He was looking at the couple on the sofa, but Athos realized with a jolt that his attention was focused not on the young, less experienced intern, but on Athos himself.

“Of course I can,” he said.

“It’s not just another mission,” Porthos said, preemptively cutting off Athos’ next words. He knew Athos too well. Porthos nodded at d’Artagnan. “And you won’t have him to lean on.”

D’Artagnan looked up fiercely. “He will have me. You will,” he said, turning to Athos. “We may be apart, but I’ll still be with you, Athos. No matter what happens.”

* * * * *

**Present**

In the few precious minutes that d’Artagnan had been preoccupied with detaining Milady, the flame from her lighter had grown to a fire that was devouring the de la Fere house.

Much of the exterior was stone, and the fire was stymied temporarily; but once it had found the necessary fuel, the flames had eagerly latched on. Fire leapt from wooden shingles to shutters to windowsills, and from there it licked eagerly at the veritable feast of curtains, bookshelves, and wall paneling inside the house.

D’Artagnan staggered only a few feet through the door. A stench like a thousand bonfires hit him like a solid object. He coughed and choked. Something inside the house was already on fire; he could smell the antique fripperies of the estate going up in a few crackles and pops.

Smoke seeped into the hall and curled around d’Artagnan. He tried to wave it away. It went nowhere; it was building, slowly but steadily.

The sirens of the fire trucks split the night. He heard Aramis yelling, and Porthos’ urgent booming shouts. Other people were yelling too -- was that Treville?

He was wasting time. Milady had said that Athos was still alive. But what kind of condition had she left him in? Bruised or bleeding? Unconscious?

Where had she left him, in this midnight maze of a house?

D’Artagnan called out, but nothing answered him. He coughed and covered his mouth with an arm.

He squinted against the haze. He could just make out the vague, dark shape of a doorway. He moved toward it cautiously, feeling for the walls, and disappeared into the dark.

The smoke swirled into the space he left, leaving no sign that anyone had ever entered the house.

* * * * *

**Earlier that week**

Athos called Ninon on a burner phone that Porthos convinced Flea to purchase for him.

“I’m glad we’ve been able to renew our acquaintance,” he began awkwardly.

“Me too,” said Ninon briskly. “What’s this about, Athos?”

“I’m not going to make your fundraiser. None of us are. Something’s come up. I’m very sorry, Ninon.”

Ninon just barely withheld a sigh. “Work?”

“Professional and personal, I’m afraid. You remember my ex-wife.”

Ninon was silent for a moment. “What do you need?”

Athos sagged in relief. “I understand if you don’t want--”

Ninon sniffed. “You underestimate me. I’ve been throwing fundraisers for years. I could do this in my sleep. I need something to keep me occupied while Flea terrorizes the carpenters.”

Athos didn’t ask why Ninon needed carpenters for a fundraiser. “She’s bugged our phones.”

“Then why--”

“This is a burner,” he said quickly. “I need you to call my personal phone every now and again. I need to tell you about d’Artagnan and I--” He stopped short and swallowed.

“You and d’Artagnan?” Ninon asked cautiously.

He didn’t mean for his voice to rasp, but it did so without his permission. “We’re breaking up.” He cleared his throat. “For her sake. So she knows I’m vulnerable.”

“Oh, Athos,” Ninon murmured. “Will you be--”

“I’ll be fine,” he snapped, already tired of being asked. “I just need to tell someone outside our circle. You have a reason to call me -- the fundraiser.”

Ninon’s heavy earrings clacked against her phone as she nodded. “Information is more believable when it comes from a third party. I’ve learned a bit about marketing since I opened my own business. I’ll sell this to her, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Ninon. I can’t tell you how much…”

“Buy me lunch when it’s all over,” Ninon said. “Then we’ll be even.”

*

Forgeron’s body was replaced in its spot by the river. The police team that had brought it in was conveniently dispatched on a new case across the city. 

D’Artagnan felt his stomach twist every time Zénaide helpfully pointed out a clue. She didn’t -- couldn’t -- know that Rochefort had no intention of solving this case. Or that d’Artagnan knew exactly who had done it.

Even worse was her look of pity and understanding when she found out about Athos and Milady. She felt sorry for d’Artagnan, the person who was deceiving her into working with a corrupt cop and a soon-to-be corrupt intern. He was trapping her in the middle of a veritable explosion waiting to happen. D’Artagnan argued with Rochefort and laid the trap of his emotional distress at Rochefort’s feet. His crumbling personal life was the carrot for the Rochefort to bite at.

Sadly, only the degree to which they affected his relationship with Athos was fictional. Athos _was_ torn up over Milady, if not to the point of storming into the precinct and shouting at Treville. And d’Artagnan _was_ worrying over Athos and obsessively checking his phone for news of LaBarge’s hearing.

Even his healing tattoo, his personal reminder that his father would have wanted d’Artagnan to follow his calling, couldn’t shake d’Artagnan’s anxious doubt. He should be helping, not staying in Paris waiting for scraps of texts from his sisters.

His sisters had no inkling as to what d’Artagnan was up to. He knew that Milady was reading his texts and listening to his phone. Anything he might have tried to explain to them would be picked up by Milady’s bugs.

He kept the communication to terse messages, wincing when he got short with Lisabeth. Hopefully Milady would read it as emotional turmoil; unfortunately, Lisabeth would read it as childish sass.

All his sisters were doing their part to help their family. And here d’Artagnan had jumped at the opportunity to further himself from family and friends and lose any respect his colleagues might have had for him.

It might be the right thing to do, but it was very lonely. And he only had himself to blame.

*

Captain Treville turned the projector on, and the bottom dropped out of d’Artagnan’s stomach.

Milady sneered at him from the screen. The courtroom scene had featured heavily in their notes the night before; d’Artagnan knew this picture had been snapped by an intrepid tabloid journalist on the day that the charges against Milady had been read.

Seeing the same photo in this larger-than-life format was different. He could feel his skin prickle as other cops looked around at him and nudged their neighbors.

His hand twitched toward his phone. He first instinct was to tell Athos. But he stilled his hand with effort.

He couldn’t talk to Athos anymore, beyond their public spectacles and their dramatic arguments in Athos’ apartment. This was the beginning of the end of their relationship.

D’Artagnan looked away when the Interpol agent stepped forward. Thank all the small mercies that Interpol had approved the plan that Athos and the others had whipped up. And thanks to Treville, who had argued their case ferociously.

But then again -- suddenly, he wasn’t sure he was grateful that they’d approved the plan at all.

*

Athos had thought he was prepared to face his ex-wife. But even the news that she was back, delivered by a callous reporter instead of Treville’s concerned face, sent him reeling, gasping for breath. The words barreled down the phone line and struck Athos as if they were physical blows.

Athos hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until Porthos had called his name. The loose, disconnected feeling was cut short, like a balloon yanked back to earth. He was grounded by the steady pressure of Porthos’ hand on his shoulder.

If Athos didn’t know better, he would think that Porthos had forgotten the charade; his fussing over Athos, feeding him an energy bar and waiting until the color was back in his cheeks, was entirely Porthos. But Porthos played along with Athos even after Athos shut off his traitorous phone.

With Porthos there, everything had snapped back into clarity. He needed to see Treville and argue his case: that if Milady was back, then she’d be back for a reason, and the police department would take an interest.

Memories of the last time Athos had gone to a police station because of Milady -- because of Anne, as she had been then -- ran through his head all the way to the precinct.

This time, at least, he had Porthos, who gripped Athos’ hand across the armrest all the way there.

*

D’Artagnan couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through him when he and Athos faced each other in front of the receptionist’s desk at the station. They had never really worked together on a case before, and certainly not on a case that had required unspoken communication.

But now their communication seemed effortless: d’Artagnan only had to cut his eyes this way, or twitch his finger meaningfully, for Athos to take his hint.

D’Artagnan understood Athos perfectly in turn; he could infer Athos’ plan and wordlessly move to support it. They worked together better than d’Artagnan ever could have imagined.

D’Artagnan poked at Athos, who dodged the subject. Athos pushed d’Artagnan for insider information; d’Artagnan deliberately shifted as if in discomfort, and hedged.

If only they weren’t working toward their mutual demise, then it would have been perfect.

When Athos closed his eyes and apologized, backing down from a confrontation, d’Artagnan saw the true apology in his face. He understood. The thrill of their wordless teamwork was corrupted by the reality of their situation.

He couldn’t do much without giving them away. But he touched his fingers to Athos’ elbow, trying to support him; trying to show him that he would hold Athos up for as long as he was able.

*

D’Artagnan picked a fight about the oven and Athos felt his hands clench and unclench, and he hated himself for sending them down this route. How many of his own relationships would Athos ruin?

How many people would leave him because he wasn’t good enough?

It was difficult to play the charade in his living room, on that couch that he’d lain on so many times, wrapped around d’Artagnan, content and -- and in love. It was hard to say the words to d’Artagnan. Not only because he knew that Milady was listening, but worse; he knew that the words he said were the truth.

He could only hope that d’Artagnan mistook what he was saying as a lure for Milady, and not the bared, flayed truth of Athos’ heart.

“I’ve been over every detail with myself a thousand times,” he said, staring out the window at the gray winter and feeling Milady’s cold presence surround him. She was coming closer. She was already in the room with him. Her cameras' gaze crawled over his skin. 

“After I found out that she was a con woman, I dissected every moment we had together. I couldn’t tell if her laughter was genuine on this day, or if she really had a business trip this other day. I couldn’t--”

How could he ever fully say what Anne had meant to him -- the good and all the terrible? How could he explain to d’Artagnan, who had only ever known the love of his family and his various brief relationships, the way that Anne had been Athos’ anchor for so long before he had realized that Milady was drowning him?

“The worst is wondering about the bad times. Wondering if she only got cross and tried to hold me at arms’ length because I was getting close to the truth. Or if… If she really did love me at first, but I wasn’t good enough for her. Wondering if she got tired of me.” His voice was rasping now, but he had to get this out. “If she’s caught, I’ll finally get answers. If I could only be on the operation that catches her, I could ask her…”

He could ask her if he’d ever been loved the way he was loved by d’Artagnan. He could finally know whether the twist he felt in his stomach when he thought of d’Artagnan was love, or the fear of failing again.

*

D’Artagnan was so pleased with the way he and Athos worked together that he was actually disappointed when Athos took the Forgeron case from Rochefort’s team.

Athos bursting into the conference room had been a shock, especially as d’Artagnan had actually thought, for a white-hot panicked second that still left him squirming with guilt, that Athos was drunk.

He had been looking forward to at least one thing that might redeem him in the eyes of the precinct, when d’Artagnan knew that later he would be making himself into a pariah and a scapegoat. Solving the Forgeron case might keep him in good standing.

He protested along with Rochefort, and Captain Treville shut them both down.

“You already have the Milady operation to worry about,” the captain said, and d’Artagnan looked down. He had his operation to worry about, true; and he couldn’t think of his reputation in light of what was at stake. He concentrated on looking resentful of his boyfriend’s case-stealing agency.

Time and patience, he reminded himself. Those were the things Athos had needed most before any of this Milady stuff had begun; Athos would need them now more than ever. D’Artagnan could give him time, for stalling or deceiving Milady; and he could be patient and trust Athos to have a plan.

This resolve wavered slightly when Athos, over a dead body, referred to Milady as his wife. Not ‘ex-wife.’

Their silent connection faltered. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel adrift, suddenly, with the knowledge that this was what it would feel like to have Athos break up with him. Athos didn’t touch d’Artagnan; barely looked at him; and when he did, his eyes were flat and cold.

Athos ‘solved’ the case and left the morgue without looking back at d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan stared after Athos, jaw working, trying to find the words to call him back.

The plan was accelerating. Any day now, d’Artagnan and Athos would have to break up. In front of witnesses. D’Artagnan would have to walk away from Athos and -- his stomach twisted at the thought of it -- see that cold, unfeeling stare again, and be left alone with Rochefort.

No. If d’Artagnan was fake-ending it with Athos, then it would be on his terms.

He left the precinct and made his way to Athos’ apartment, stopping on the way for a bag of their favorite Greek takeaway. He climbed the stairs to Athos’ apartment and sat on the last step heavily.

He pulled out his phone and his thumb automatically found Porthos’ number in his speed dial. He might have found a grim humor in it, if he’d had any energy to spare for laughter. He was putting in hours on the job even now; wasn’t he the most conscientious traitor to the badge to ever work in Paris?

But Porthos was a friend, one of the best d’Artagnan had ever had. No matter how d’Artagnan snapped at him, and no matter how much Porthos insinuated to anyone listening to the bug inside d’Artagnan’s phone that his opinion of d’Artagnan was that Athos could do better… He had picked up when d’Artagnan called. And d’Artagnan could rest his head on his hand and let the tears pool in his eyes and listen to Porthos’ deep, reassuring voice tell him to keep his chin up.

Athos found him there, the takeaway cooling and the phone in his hand.

D’Artagnan put the phone down, and Milady’s presence in it. He was painfully aware of the police mic on his chest that recorded his every breath. But at least the enemy couldn’t hear them right now, here in the hallowed space between the apartment and precinct and phone. He scrambled to his feet and Athos met him on the step below d’Artagnan’s.

Athos’ eyes were cloudy with emotion. “You did all this?” he said. “After the way I treated you today. You still did this.” 

His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach for d’Artagnan but didn’t know if he was allowed.

D’Artagnan laughed a little, trying to show that he forgave Athos. It came out small and cracked. “It was shitty, I’ll say that. But I get why you were being shitty.” Of course he understood. It was all part of the charade. That didn’t mean it sucked any less.

Athos couldn’t hold back now, and he reached out for d’Artagnan, wrapping his hands around d’Artagnan waist, holding him desperately, thumbs rubbing over d’Artagnan’s hipbones. 

“You understand,” he said, “you understand that it was in front of Rochefort, and Treville is keeping me off the case, and I can’t stand…”

D’Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut and drew Athos in. Athos buried his face in d’Artagnan’s chest, and d’Artagnan clung to him, digging his hands into Athos’ hair and taking Athos’ weight when he sagged.

 _I can’t stand it either_ , he thought fiercely, wishing he could say it out loud without doubting his ability to see this through.

He still remembered what Athos had said: _As long as we get her, all of this will be worth it_. He could do this for Athos. He would finish what he’d started. He repeated this to himself and kept his eyes shut, trying to stay just a little longer in this place with only the two of them.

Finally, Athos lifted his head. D’Artagnan slowly dropped his arms and took a deep breath. They’d had this. It would have to be enough.

He tilted his head toward Athos’ apartment; toward the listening devices and the exhausting pretense and an argument waiting to have it out. He squeezed Athos’ fingers, asking a silent question: was Athos ready to go in again?

“So,” he said, “you wanna come in?”

Athos smiled a terrible, resigned smile. “Monsieur, how could I refuse such an offer?”

*

Aurelia unwittingly provided the perfect excuse for Athos to pick an argument. His frustration spilled over and the words were out of his mouth before he knew -- “Can’t we focus on one murderer at a time?”

D’Artagnan muted his phone. He and Athos stared at each other. Athos knew, in that moment, that the end had just begun. There would be no going back from this. Their embrace on the couch, the quiet moment in the stairwell -- those had been the last soft touches they would have until Milady was caught.

D’Artagnan began to spit accusations. Athos drew himself up, wrapping himself in what Aramis called his “de la Fere mask.” It was the countenance Milady would recognize on her cameras: the haughty stare, the holier-than-thou attitude that she had encouraged Athos use on everyone but her.

D’Artagnan flailed and shouted, waving his phone and ignoring the way his voice cracked when he mentioned his father’s death. He called Athos a hypocrite and a vigilante. He dropped Rochefort’s name for the benefit of the listening devices. As d’Artagnan raised his voice, Athos grew quieter. He didn’t have to search far to find the cold, tight anger that was waiting to coil itself around his heart.

In the end, d’Artagnan’s anger burned hot and fast and died just as quickly. And Athos was left, trembling and alone, in the middle of his empty apartment.

He must have made an entertaining show on Milady’s monitors: crawling on his belly for the key to his hidden wine stash, unlocking the chest, cradling the wine bottle like a man holding his firstborn. The care he took as he uncorked his illicit treasure wasn’t faked; there were no cameras in the kitchen, only the single listening device. This was good wine, and Athos had been saving it for a special occasion. That had been before he’d stopped drinking. It was a damn shame that he’d never taste it.

He made sure to splash the wine into the glass; made sure the distinctive sound of the swirling liquid echoed through the otherwise silence kitchen.

The full, sweet scent rose to meet him, suffusing the air with its familiar red hue. Athos’ mouth watered. He remembered this moment, just before the first drink. He remembered the moments that came after: the first rush of intoxication; the blissful emptiness; the dark, waiting oblivion. They remembered him too, and they called to him.

He needed a drink. No -- he wanted a drink, but he would resist. He needed something to distract him. He needed… d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan, who had walked away from him. D’Artagnan, who had paused at the door, fidgeting with his gloves and coat, waiting for Athos to call him back and put an end to this.

D’Artagnan, who hadn’t known about Athos’ wine stash.

The wine was beautiful, even in its poor vessel, glowing red and sinful.

The moment stretched.

One sip… d’Artagnan would never know.

* * * * *

**Present**

Athos twisted and tugged like a wild animal, rubbing his wrist raw in his effort to free it from the handcuffs that chained him to the wall. He had already tried to take the light fixture off the wall, but it hadn’t budged.

His burst of strength dissipated as quickly as it had come and he settled, panting, against the wall, his sweaty hair lying across his forehead.

He tried to keep his breathing shallow, but the smoke was growing. It seeped through the window. He coughed and spluttered, trying to coax from moisture from his mouth that he might swallow and ease the sharp sting in his throat.

The stench of fire was everywhere. His suit was ruined. His face throbbed where Milady had pistol-whipped him. He thought he could feel his cufflinks in his pocket burning against his thigh and didn’t know if he was imagining it or not. 

His father’s cufflinks. His father’s house, his father’s gun room, his father’s cigar-smoke curtains, and his brother’s blood, and his ex-wife’s ruined throat and bloody hands.

Fire crackled on the house. Athos could hear it, but he couldn’t judge the distance. Was it just outside the window? Was it creeping in; would it soon catch at him?

He was held immobile by more than the handcuffs. The ghosts and grief of his past weighed his limbs down. He slumped against the wall. He could no more escape the dark thoughts than he could slip out of the cuffs.

Maybe he deserved to die here, in this bloody house. It was what he deserved. He had failed to protect his brother from his wife, and his wife from his brother. Athos had lived with that burden for six years. Now, perhaps, it was finally catching up with him.

D’Artagnan still didn’t know that Athos’ stash of wine had been real. He wouldn’t know until he went over the tapes. Then how would Athos be remembered -- as a failure and coward? Someone who kept alcohol in his house, hidden from his boyfriend, in case he ever needed to test himself or… or finally give in?

Who knew if d’Artagnan would still love him, after seeing the rotten secret of Athos’ past?

Athos had passed that test in his kitchen. But he’d failed others.

* * * * *

**Earlier that week**

Constance had never liked playacting, but this was different. As long as she remembered that this was part of the job, she could lie straight to her colleagues’ faces.

“I never thought they’d last, to be honest,” she said, gesturing with her coffee cup. “One’s a grump and the other… he’s a puppy!”

Her coworker laughed. Constance made a mental note to give him traffic duty for a week. Shame on him for gossiping about Athos and d’Artagnan! Never mind that Constance had started the conversation with a nod over at Celine, who was offering d'Artagnan her traditional post-breakup pastries. “Did you hear?” Constance had said, and that had been all it took to hook the detective. Police officers were the worst for gossip, honestly.

Constance was glad that her status as Head Detective made her too busy for too much gossiping. She hated spreading lies about d’Artagnan. She made sure that the precinct accepted her story of d’Artagnan’s rocky emotional state, and then she dove into the reports that awaited her. She had her regular paperwork to take care of, on top of working with Interpol to track the Milady investigation, keeping an eye on d’Artagnan and Athos’ live recordings, and carefully ironing out a game plan that would let Milady completely slip through their fingers at the Musée.

It took skill to put together a task force that would seamlessly close in on a highly dangerous thief and con woman; it took even greater skill to carefully maneuver all parties into bungling the operation.

Luckily, Constance wasn’t Head Detective for nothing.

*

Zénaide was a perfect sounding board for d’Artagnan’s troubles. He managed to steer their conversations within earshot of Rochefort to d’Artagnan’s troubles with Athos and his worry about LaBarge. But d’Artagnan should have known that Zénaide wouldn’t be happy to be his unwitting accomplice.

When Treville nudged Detective Moeller into offering Zénaide a ride-along spot, d’Artagnan was relieved and anxious in equal measure. She was away from the danger. It was good that she was distancing herself from the trainwreck of d’Artagnan and Rochefort.

But in a selfish corner of his mind, he missed one of the few, true friends he had at work. Constance was already in her role of busybody Head Detective who would side with Athos; once Zénaide left, d’Artagnan was alone with the wolf in cop’s clothing. And he faced the orders from Captain Treville: to make Zénaide, and the rest of the precinct, hate him.

*

The Musketeers Agency kept its phone lines tied up with false starts and goose chases. Porthos looked up the blueprints for the Musée while Aramis kept an eye on Milady’s penthouse suite. Lunch was had in the office, in order to showcase their inability to puzzle out Milady’s plan.

All the while, the color sapped from Athos’ face, Aramis’ trigger finger twitched more and more, and Porthos fidgeted and swallowed frustrated sighs. Treville got in on the fun, too; he played his part of the dour, tense captain very well. Truth be told, it didn’t require too much acting.

He made sure that his officers heard him complaining about each setback as they cropped up. He took the phone call from the precinct about the “curator” demanding to speak to him on his personal cell phone, but he spoke loudly enough that the officers positioned on the Musée's roof with him would hear his increasingly frantic attempts to stop her from coming. He grumbled all the way to the gate; his mutters were broadcast on the radio in every officer’s ear. When Athos leaned in close and hissed his doubts about Treville’s officers’ capacity to handle the situation, he made sure that was picked up by the earpiece as well.

Treville took care to halt Athos on the sidewalk outside of the Musée across from the surveillance van in which Rochefort sat. The traitor had a clear view of the drama that played out between Treville and Athos, as well as their dual shocked expressions when they seemed to realize that Milady had tricked them. The radios took care of the rest. All of Athos’ wordless reactions -- his scramble toward the roof’s edge, the struggle between him and Treville -- would be all over the department in less than an hour thanks to the detectives on the roof with Treville and Athos.

They let Milady get away with the lot -- the phone call, the taxi, the dramatic exit, and the coin dies. Treville was slightly embarrassed that none of his officers thought to question his plan, which mostly involved dicking around on rooftops, and resolved to send his staff to tactical planning seminars once this was over.

Athos played his part well in drawing any suspicion away from Treville. It was depressingly easy to use his officers’ humiliation at losing to Milady to swing their disapproval toward Athos. Treville only had to raise his voice and ban the Musketeers Agency from the precinct for the crowd to hush.

He fully admitted that he was a coward for being glad that he didn’t witness what happened next. Seeing his pseudo-godson end things with his depressingly older boyfriend wasn’t really on Treville’s bucket list.

*

Constance shoved her way through the crowd to Treville’s side. She handed a phone to Captain Treville. “Sir, the mayor is on the line for you.” Captain Treville accepted the phone and, glaring at the assembly, retreated to his office.

Constance darted back to her desk just in time to lift her desk phone and hear the captain say, “Mayor Hidalgo.”

“Captain Treville,” said Constance coldly. She straightened at her desk, projecting an aura of discontent. The circle of detectives was distracted by the drama unfolding at its center; no one paid attention to her conversation. “I’ve heard about the fiasco of your operation at the Musée tonight.”

“Ma’am, it was a miscommunication and the appropriate measures --”

“None of that, captain,” said Constance, enjoying the role of bossing her boss around. She hoped Milady was enjoying Treville’s suffering too. “The media is going to have a field day with this. I want to assure them that we have every stop pulled to catch this criminal. Put your infamous Musketeers on the case.”

“Mayor, that was the reason --”

“No arguments,” Constance snapped. “Do it now.” She hung up before Treville could argue.

She allowed herself a quick grin. It felt good to be the mayor.

She looked up when Porthos, who was standing by her desk, yelled in a thick country accent, “Both sides? Bullshit!”

The crowd around him agreed. Constance stood, peering around the detectives, and found Athos and d’Artagnan in a stand-off.

Oh.

*

The public scene almost made it easier.

Athos and d’Artagnan’s relationship was built on quiet moments. The buzz of their computers at midnight when they fell asleep with the Skype window open, back when d’Artagnan was in Gascony. The low chatter of the city through a half-open window and the sun warming the late Saturday morning air on their precious weekends together.

The slow exploration of skin under the covers while rain dotted the roof. Their hands twining together while out with their friends, an island of touch in the midst of chatter and flutter.

Underlining passages in books that they lent to each other; finding each other in the highlighted words. Sitting at the back of indie theaters to watch old science fiction and paying less attention to the outdated plot than the low murmurs of each other’s voices and the warm weight of arms over shoulders.

D’Artagnan holding out a spoon for Athos to taste dinner. Athos quizzing d’Artagnan on his officer’s exam and absently stroking his cheek while they lay in bed.

Late-night secrets. Gentle kisses. Closed doors and private moments that were too dear to share with anyone else.

It was nothing like this public scene in the middle of the precinct, under the fluorescent lights, a crowd of cops watching their every move. It made it a little easier to separate the reality from their fiction.

That was what Athos tried to tell himself when d’Artagnan looked directly at him and said, “Fine. If you don’t want me around, then I’ll leave.”

Athos felt the blood drain from his face. His vision tunneled. None of the precinct existed anymore; it was down to Athos and the awful look of hatred on d’Artagnan’s face. All thoughts of their playacting fled Athos’ head. This was everything Athos had been fearing since the first minute he realized that he was falling for the young barista from the cafe in Gascony. D’Artagnan had gotten tired with Athos’ problems. He was leaving.

“That’s not what I meant,” Athos croaked.

D’Artagnan voice shook when he said, “It’s exactly what you meant. I can’t help you with Milady.”

No one could. Not least this man who deserved more than a broken man with a vengeful past.

“I can’t do anything for you.”

Not true. D’Artagnan could stay, he could --

“I thought you needed time to get over your problems, but I guess I’m your problem. I’m just one of the enemy, right? You’ve done nothing but push me away.”

Then what about their night before, when Athos had held d’Artagnan on the couch--

Athos’ brain reconnected. He nearly choked on his indrawn breath. This was fake.

“I’m taking the hint. I’m gone.”

Fake.

Athos nearly reached out to d’Artagnan. His hand rose; d’Artagnan leaned imperceptibly closer.

But if he weakened now, this would all be for nothing; and so Athos took a step back, into Aramis’ waiting, bracing hands.

 _“We may be apart, but I’ll still be with you, Athos. No matter what happens.”_ D’Artagnan had said that Athos would still have him. He had to trust d’Artagnan and keep him close to his heart while he was gone.

That didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate Porthos and Aramis holding him up on the steps of the precinct, as they disparaged him in loud voices for the benefit of the eavesdropping police officers.

Athos still shook with contained adrenaline and shock as he descended the steps. Porthos and Aramis stayed behind. They would be following Rochefort in a few minutes. Athos trusted them to do their part; and they trusted him to do his.

He made his way to a local pub. It was just far enough from the precinct that it wasn’t a cop bar; and at this time of day, it was nearly empty except for a few regular drunks.

He offered the bartender a bill. “Twenty if you serve me cold tea in a whiskey glass,” he said.

The bartender took the bill with no fuss. She’d probably seen stranger things. “Neat?”

“Please.”

While he was waiting, he sent Ninon a text on his first burner phone -- the one that Milady didn’t know about. Hopefully.

_Call in ten please._

He accepted the tea and toyed with the tumbler. He knew he was the very picture of a despondent man on the edge. He felt the same.

The picture of d’Artagnan’s snarl kept floating in front of his eyes. The fury in his eyes as he accused Athos of pushing him away…

Athos found himself wracking his brain, grabbing every recent moment with d’Artagnan that he could remember and searching them for signs of truth in what d’Artagnan had said. How fake had that scene really been? The anger on d’Artagnan’s face had been too raw to be entirely fake. Had the truth slipped into d’Artagnan’s speech; had his hidden frustrations with Athos spilled out unexpectedly?

The argument about the oven -- had that had a tinge of real frustration in it? D’Artagnan didn’t usually mind when Athos spent his own money freely, no matter the fancy appliance or trinket. Or at least, he pretended not to mind. D’Artagnan had been thinking about his family’s farm recently. Was it making him sensitive about money? Had Athos missed the signs? Had d’Artagnan become annoyed with his dense, insensitive boyfriend?

...Ex-boyfriend.

He jolted when his cell phone rang. He fumbled for it and answered Ninon’s call.

Athos could tell that Ninon was having a splendid time playing the high-society bitch. She oozed sickly-sweet consolations when he told her about d’Artagnan. Her obvious enjoyment of her role did little to ease the now-permanent knot in Athos’ stomach. He knew that Milady was listening. Gloating about his misfortune.

Ninon hung up. Athos kept his eyes on his tea-whiskey and very carefully didn’t look toward the window.

He knew that she would have eyes on him. When they had been married, she had never let him lick his wounds in peace. An argument had always been followed by a multitude of smaller fights: she would pick at his defenses until he no longer put up a fight, if only to appease her. Sometimes, he would feel so guilty about her accusations that he never considered her side, that he apologized and immediately withdrew any argument he’d had, whether it had been for a day spent doing what he wanted or for the simple purchase of a new cell phone. Other times, he had dropped the subject simply to end the needling about his dress, his profession, his expenses, his relationship with Thomas, his toothpaste brand -- god, anything.

After a while, he had learned to stop challenging her at all.

Once Athos had read Thomas’ hastily assembled file -- and had allowed himself a few days for the information to trickle through his wine-soaked brain -- he had fully understood her fear that he would find out about her business if she didn’t keep Athos in line. That revelation had prompted another few days of willful ignorance in the bottom of a bottle.

Now that Athos knew the story of Milady’s tortured childhood as well as her paranoia that Athos would find out and hold it against her, he understood her need to show Athos that the woman he had condemned to imprisonment and public scrutiny had survived; thrived, even. She needed him to know that what he had thrown away had prospered.

It was, apparently, her modus operandi: Athos had seen his marriage reflected in a half-dozen case files featuring men who had fallen in with a high-society lady, only to discover that their latest lover was nothing more than a street rat. Their hasty attempts to separate themselves from the woman was met with fierce, and often bloody, retribution.

She would be here in person. Any old lookout wasn’t good enough for Athos; she wanted to see him crumple with her own eyes.

He was ready for it.

He breathed a sigh of relief as his decoy burner phone -- not the first burner he had texted Ninon on -- buzzed in his pocket. He made a show of patting his pockets as if confused that his secret phone was going off.

Then Anne said, “Hello, Athos,” and all his ready plans went out the window.

Her voice was huskier than it used to be. The wound on her throat, no doubt. But he still heard the same intonations and the same satisfied, barely-there smile of the woman he had fallen in love with. It had been six years, and her voice still took him back to the days when she would cup his face and whisper that she was the only one who loved him.

“How did you get this number?” he asked, heart pounding in his throat. He thought with every beat, How do you always find me? How are your hooks still in me after so long?

“You aren’t as clever as you’d like to think,” she said. “I’m sure your boyfriend and I could trade some fascinating notes about you.” He flinched automatically at the thought of Milady anywhere near d’Artagnan. She must have seen it, for she added, “Oh, that’s your _ex_ -boyfriend, isn’t it? I heard about the scene at the police station.”

Athos released a slow breath. He tried not to give himself away. Good. She believed it. All this pain would be worth it, if only they could keep her believing.

“What do you want?” he asked. In the mirror above the bar, he watched the dark, blurry figure outside the pub’s window toss its long, dark hair. 

“Nothing you haven’t already given me,” she said. “I’ve watched you run yourself to the ground and lose everything you hold dear. I didn’t have to lift a finger.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“I wanted to say goodbye one last time. I’m leaving Paris in two days.”

A likely story. She wanted to needle him one last time. She wanted to get the last word in, as she always had. She wanted him to drop the argument; stop the chase; submit to her demands as he had before.

“You’re not worried that I’ll catch you in that time?” he tossed back.

Milady laughed. “Not with your track record, darling.”

“I will,” he vowed recklessly. “I’ll--” Dead air. She had hung up on him.

He set the phone down on the counter. He picked up the glass in front of him instead. He counted to fifteen. Slowly. Long enough to pretend-ponder the tumbler of fake whiskey in front of him.

Then he downed the tea.

He stared into the mirror until the dark-haired figure with the umbrella left her spot outside the pub. He counted another five minutes off, just in case. He counted them slowly.

D’Artagnan’s face swam in front of his eyes again, twisted in anger and accusation.

Aramis’ hand on Athos’ shoulder and Porthos’ finger jabbing into his chest: _“And you let the best person that’s ever happened to you walk away.”_

Anne’s murmurs in his ear, as they lay in the warm island of their bed in the middle of their cold, empty house: _“I love you, Athos. I’m the only one who’s ever truly loved you. I’m the only one who will truly understand you.”_

Anne’s voice in his ear again as he sat at a bar and pretended to drink.

The wine bottles in the chest in his apartment. The rich aroma of the wine and the glow of it in the glass. The waste, the absolute waste, of the expensive vintage tossed down the drain.

Athos tugged a bill out of his wallet. He leaned over the bar top to catch the bartender’s attention, pressing the camera hidden in his coat button into the bar until it saw nothing but black.

He placed a finger over the button for good measure. Hopefully that would block the sound.

He held out the bill.

“Another forty for you,” he said to the bartender quietly, “if you give me another. But make it real whiskey this time.”

 _What are you doing_ , he thought at himself, even as he watched the bartender pour the whiskey. He followed her every move avidly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the drink as it came closer.

 _This is a terrible idea_ , he told himself as his fingers closed around the tumbler. _You shouldn’t do this_.

 _Rethink this decision_ , he scolded as he brought the glass to his lips.

Obediently, he paused. But the pros and cons could wait to be balanced until after he’d taken the drink.

This one didn’t make it to the count of five before he tossed it back.

*

After the breakup, everything went delightfully downhill.

Athos shouted at Treville loudly enough to be heard in the bullpen.

Constance was rude to d’Artagnan via text.

The news channels featured the Musketeers Agency’s failure to catch the infamous Milady.

Aramis removed Milady’s camera from the office but left the listening device to overhear their heated arguments about Athos’ obsession.

Porthos pretended to accuse Athos of drinking again. Athos managed not to flinch.

For his part, d’Artagnan alienated Zénaide and shouted at his coworkers, and managed to stage a public scene with Aramis in front of the rest of the precinct.

He also managed to slip a note into Aramis’ pocket.

D’Artagnan had tossed and turned for most of the night, trying to banish from his mind the image of Athos’ stunned expression when d’Artagnan had told him that he was leaving. He would drift off to sleep and then Athos’ face would pop up, pale and wounded, and d’Artagnan would punch his pillow and turn over.

It made him wonder what would have happened if he had just called Athos, that first day in the conference room, instead of looking obediently at the image of Milady’s sneering face on the projector screen. If he had just called Athos… if he could just text him now, and explain everything…

By the small hours of the morning, d’Artagnan had gotten it into his head that he needed to text Athos. It was vitally important. It was crucial to the operation.

It was… impossible.

Milady was monitoring their phones. D’Artagnan couldn’t go anywhere without Rochefort watching him like a hawk and scoping him out as a scapegoat. At the station, he was _persona non grata_.

The note was his crowning achievement. It took an angry step into Aramis’ space and a quick tug at Aramis’ jacket; and Aramis obligingly turned so that d’Artagnan could slip the piece of paper into his pocket.

D’Artagnan had struggled to find a way to tell Athos that he trusted him; that he still loved him and was waiting for him through this whole mess. All the letters he’d started he’d had to scribble out. They got too long or too incoherent. Athos needed reassurance, not a complicated code to puzzle over.

In the end, d’Artagnan had gone with his first symbol of affection for Athos, back when Athos had been even more technologically illiterate and d’Artagnan had to explain to him what exactly “less than three” meant.

A text heart on a piece of paper. Athos would understand. They were far away from each other by circumstance, not by distance as they once were; but d’Artagnan loved him the same, no matter what separated them.

*

Aramis watched d’Artagnan at his desk across the bullpen at the precinct. The kid looked tired: too pale, too quiet, too snappish. It could have been the act he was putting on for his colleagues, but on the other hand…

He noticed Rochefort approaching d’Artagnan with a stack of papers. Here came d’Artagnan’s test. Aramis turned back to the Interpol files he was copying and ruffled his hair, blocking the precinct’s view of his mouth.

“Send the brat in,” he murmured, just loud enough for his earpiece to pick it up. “I’ll stir up a scene and he’ll be ready to pick a fight in a blink.”

Across the street, in a car with tinted windows, Porthos nodded to Flea and her teenage charge in the backseat.

“‘S time,” he said.

Flea turned to the teenage girl beside xir. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Sure,” said the teenager, who was named Celine. She reached up nervously and tightened her high ponytail of dark hair. “I’m getting paid though, right?”

“Fifty now, fifty later,” Porthos said from the front seat.

Flea shot him a venomous glance. “You don’t have to,” xe cautioned Celine.

“The captain will take care of you,” Porthos said.

“Don’t try and sway her,” Flea snapped.

“This will help, won’t it?” Celine said. “You’ll get rid of the bad cops?” A shadow passed through her eyes.

“Yeah, this’ll help,” said Porthos.

Celine stuck out her jaw and nodded. “Then I’ll do it.” She wasn’t a girl given to emotional displays, but she looked at Flea and said, “You’ve done enough for me at the shelter. The least I can do is help with this.” She looked away, recovering from her moment of embarrassing sentimentality. “Anyway, it’s just rolling a blunt. I do that all the time.”

“Private detective, here,” Porthos reminded her. Celine sneered at him.

“Fine,” said Flea. “But you tell me if anyone mistreats you, alright? You tell me even the littlest thing.”

Celine rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that the point? You said your friend the cop was going to grab me and shake me.” She swallowed and tried to look blasé about it.

“He won’t hurt you,” said Porthos. “It’s a con, is all. Just like you do sometimes. He needs to look a bit desperate in front of his audience.”

“Who’s that?”

“The less you know, the better,” Flea said firmly. “Just remember: Captain Treville will make sure that you get out right away. He’ll take you out the side entrance. I’ll be waiting for you there. Porthos will be in the car in case you need backup. Okay?”

Celine took a deep breath. “Okay.” She grabbed the bag of weed and rolling papers from the seat next to her. “I just sit on the steps, right?”

“Just wait for them to see you,” Porthos said. “An officer’s along every few minutes. You’ll have your time to shine in a heartbeat.”

“You’ll do fine, sweetheart,” said Flea.

“I know _that_ ,” said Celine waspishly. She climbed out and slammed the door.

Porthos watched her take a seat on the steps. He ignored Flea’s glare burning a hole into the back of his head for as long as he could.

“What?” he said finally.

“Next time you want to entrap a murderer with a suicidal plan, don’t use one of my kids,” Flea said.

Porthos winced. “I’m sorry, Flea. It’s the easiest way to convince--”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Flea crossed xir arms. “You know you would have bolted if anyone’d tried this stuff with us when we were her age.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t have you. If we’d had the Coeur de Miracles, you know we’d never have fallen into half the shit we did back then. Celine’s been saved a lot of strife ‘cause of you. You know she worships you?”

Flea turned xir face away, trying to hide xir smile. “Shut up.”

*

Porthos knew Athos like a brother. He knew his moods: the infinitesimal changes of his not-smiles, the hidden amusement at his friends’ antics, the guilty and self-recriminating glances toward the local pubs, the unreserved pleasure when he saw d’Artagnan.

Porthos had thought that he’d been there by Athos’ side through hell and back. It was only with this case that he realized that he hadn’t seen Athos go through true hell, until now.

It wasn’t hard to exchange worried looks with Aramis when they knew the cameras were watching, or to make uneasy comments about Athos’ obsessive concentration on Milady. The struggle came from holding back from putting an end to the charade. If Porthos wasn’t fully on board this mission -- if he didn’t know how much putting these demons to rest would mean to Athos -- he would demand that Athos put an end to his self-destructive behavior.

He knew the effect that the weight of memories could have on a person. By the time he’d gotten to the academy, Porthos had carried enough heavy thoughts to weigh his shoulders down. At twenty years old, he’d outlived his expected life span as a homeless, trans youth; now, years later, he still wore the scars and marks of that old life.

There was Charon, whose knife still boasted its true aim with the raised scar on Porthos’ stomach. There was growing up trans and homeless, which left different, parallel marks on his body and mind: the scars on his chest from the top surgery, and the names and sideways glances and questions from therapists who were sure that Porthos only dressed as a boy to protect himself on the streets. The nicks and burst blood vessels and aches from broken bottles and fists, and the cold, fearful hunger that still sometimes wrapped itself around his brain and told him to hoard food and sleep in the corner behind his bed with his back against the wall and a knife in his hand.

Some hurts healed with time. Others remained, like ghosts, haunting the nightmare corners of the mind.

Porthos didn’t know the particulars of Athos’ wounds. He knew the symptoms from long years of friendship with Athos, but the other man had never volunteered the details of either his married life or the woman who existed mostly as a phantom in Porthos’ mind. Milady flitted about the edges of their group, casting a shadow over Athos’ face at certain times of the year or at a particular scent or the mention of a place they used to go as newlyweds.

Athos wore that expression all the time, now, and Porthos didn’t think it was only for the sake of Milady’s bugs.

Porthos was all for finding vengeance. But Athos seemed intent on running himself into the ground. At this rate, he would become a self-fulfilling prophecy and would deliver himself straight into Milady’s hands.

The bags under Athos’ eyes grew darker, his expression more pinched. His hand kept straying toward his phone of its own accord until he remembered, once again, that d’Artagnan was off-limits to him. Porthos watched the flicker of anguish in Athos’ eyes before it was suppressed, and he burned with frustration at their immobility.

He managed to hold out until he found Athos sleeping in the office. Athos was wearing the clothes of the day before, and the three empty coffee mugs on his desk indicated that Athos had been up all night. This was more than pretense. This was edging into dangerously, too-real, obsessive territory.

Athos needed clear lines between his role for Milady’s play and his true self. He had always needed rules, even after he’d left the structured system of the police. His first action as a private detective had been to put a “Rules of the Agency” list on the office fridge.

Porthos could give Athos rules. He found food; he found a place with noise to cover their conversation and, coincidentally, block their words from being picked up by any type of listening device. He told Athos that if he kept running himself into the ground, then he’d tell Treville to pull Athos off the case and scrap the whole project.

It wasn’t a surprise that Athos protested, immediately and vehemently. His hand shot out to grip Porthos’ arm, panic flaring in his eyes. He wouldn’t let his only chance to entrap Milady go to waste.

Well, Porthos understood scars better than most people. He gave Athos the note that d’Artagnan had slipped into Aramis’ pocket, and watched the fragile hope bloom in Athos’ eyes like a bruise.

Athos said, “He…” and Porthos heard the rest of the unspoken sentence, _‘He still loves me?’_

If Athos was doubting d’Artagnan’s love for him, then he was too far in.

* * * * *

**Present**

It wasn’t just Athos' face that hurt now; it was his brain, his jaw, all throbbing in unison like a sponge being squeezed by an insistent, angry hand. Athos accepted each wave as it came.

For all his sins, it was right that he should die here.

He hadn’t even visited the house since the night Thomas had died. He had read the file that Thomas had left on the file; he had called a cab for a hotel; and he had gotten absolutely plastered, with the file on the hotel desk and his wife’s unfamiliar face staring up at him from the pages.

What kind of person didn’t visit his family estate? What kind of person was too afraid to visit the place where he’d grown up?

What kind of person began to hate his brother after his wife killed him, killed his own blood?

He had thought that maybe, just maybe, Anne had been the woman inside the conwoman Milady, and she had found a haven with Athos. Or even the opposite: that Milady had grown out of a desperate attempt to separate herself from dull, boring husband Athos.

But they were one and the same.

Milady was Anne, and Anne was Milady, and they had both dug their fingers into his skin and twisted his words and wanted him dead. The woman he had once loved wanted him dead.

Athos had been the older brother, and he had failed that job in every regard. He had been a husband; look where he was now. What was the point of moving forward if he still dragged the tangled weights of his past behind him?

There were vague sounds of fire trucks and policemen outside. He thought he heard Aramis shout his name.

His head _throbbed_.

He hoped that Aramis and Porthos were alright. He hoped that Constance wouldn’t blame herself when Athos couldn’t get out in time. It just wasn’t meant to be. They had Milady, and that was what mattered. He should never have dragged them into this wild goose chase; he should have kept this to himself.

His friends were the best part of him. It was right that they survived if it meant he had to die here.

He hoped that d’Artagnan wouldn’t grieve too much.

He had understood the crude heart, or at least he thought he had. He, too, had wanted things to go back to the simple times of texting each other and curling into each other on their few weekends together. He had wanted to forget about plots, about breaking up, about anything but d’Artagnan’s body and his laugh and his warm brown eyes.

_“We may be apart, but I’ll still be with you, Athos. No matter what happens.”_

D’Artagnan had said that, on the couch in Constance’s apartment. He had held Athos’ hands and kissed the knuckles of each one.

Athos closed his eyes. D’Artagnan echoed through his brain.

 _“You don’t have to punish yourself over it. You aren’t guilty of anything.”_ D’Artagnan had said that about Thomas, peering at Athos with his soulful brown eyes.

His habit of pushing his toes into Athos’ calves when he stretched in the morning. His open-mouthed smile. His hand, tight in Athos’, when he met Athos’ friends.

Constance hugging d’Artagnan. Constance hauling Athos out of his apartment and showing him how to correct his shooting stance.

Aramis and Porthos, hungover and intent, badgering Athos until he signed the lease for the agency office. Porthos saying patiently as he unpacked boxes, “You don’t want to work with the police, fine. We’ll make our own police department.”

_“What do you deserve, Athos?” asked Jessica._

Athos raised his head and blinked the smoke out of his eyes.  _I deserve to live. I deserve to try again._

He had wanted to forget about the past; to put this operation behind him. He’d wanted no more of Milady or Anne or the tangled history between them. If he couldn’t shake the shame of his past, then it had seemed no huge loss to let it all die here with him.

But there was no way but through. He could only reach those golden days by walking under these dark storm clouds.

The woman he had once loved had always wanted his destruction. It had taken him six years, and d’Artagnan, but he finally understood that truth. He finally understood that he deserved better. 

Athos began to tug at the handcuffs again. The metal dug into his tender wrist with every pull, but he kept trying. 

He wanted to fight. He wanted to make d’Artagnan smile again. He wanted to renew the agency lease and throw out his wine and -- and he wanted to fight to be happy.

He _wanted_.

* * * * *

**Earlier that week**

For appearance’s sake, at least, Athos would distance himself from Aramis and Porthos. But d’Artagnan would truly lose all friendships, and even those who still secretly loved him would have to turn their backs on him.

As d’Artagnan saw more of Rochefort’s true self, and diligently recorded the things Rochefort thought a cop should get away with, he became desperate for Zénaide to make a clean break with d’Artagnan.

If d’Artagnan succeeded in this undercover case, Rochefort’s cases would be pulled apart with inspected with a magnifying glass. Any cops who worked with Rochefort would undergo inspection. Zénaide had a mere year of service and no other mentors; there was nothing to break her fall if she was swept away as collateral.

So came the harsh words and the deliberate cold shoulders; so came siding with Rochefort when Zénaide accused him of unlawful brutality.

Zénaide moved desks. D’Artagnan had never felt worse about a plan working perfectly.

He should have thought twice before volunteering for the undercover job. He should have realized that it would mean actually _working_ with Rochefort -- hours of listening to his privileged whining; jaw-clenching minutes of nausea and disgust as d’Artagnan saw what Rochefort truly got up to on the job. He should have realized that, annoying as Rochefort had been to him before, there was always further the man could stoop.

D’Artagnan played up his fresh-from-the-farm confusion, prompting Rochefort to spell out his plans and confess to planting evidence. It benefited d’Artagnan too: he could stay silent and grit his teeth and resist the urge to tell Rochefort exactly what he thought of him.

It wasn’t hard to feign reluctance to pat down the “suspect” that Rochefort picked out for him. The young man’s clenched jaw and angry eyes were a marked difference from the teary face of Rochefort’s first victim. D’Artagnan wondered if that small boy would grow up into this angry young man, forever holding this day in his memory as proof that people like d’Artagnan weren’t on his side.

D’Artagnan had become a cop because he wanted to help other people. Even before Papa -- even before d’Artagnan understood real and terrible loss, and the relief that came with a proper conviction -- he had wanted to find justice.

He had wanted to help people like his sister Chiara, who knew the statistics of murdered trans women by heart. He had wanted to help people like how Lisabeth did: while she fought for her clients’ rights in the courtroom, he could make sure that the right people got sent to court. He had wanted to find something bigger than himself. Something he could fight for.

Rochefort perverted d’Artagnan’s dreams of what a cop should be. D’Artagnan didn’t know if Rochefort had ever once held an idealistic dream of being a good cop, but he had given in to greed a long time ago. He couldn’t even go full villain and start his own gang, d’Artagnan thought bitterly; no, Rochefort hid behind the badge and took his paycheck from both sides. All his talk about the bag of coke being d’Artagnan’s “bonus” -- he actually believed that he deserved to be paid for beating up children. 

Now this young black man, whose name d’Artagnan didn’t even _know_ , thought d’Artagnan was like Rochefort. Worse -- _Rochefort_ thought d’Artagnan was like Rochefort.

D’Artagnan aimed his button camera, and recited his lines, and couldn’t wait for this to be over.

*

The agency could have been the scene of a TV crime show, for all the work they actually put into “finding” Milady. They fiddled with monitors and talked about matching IDs to databases, cross-referencing persons of interest, and pulling sheets of data, and so on.

They knew exactly where she was. While Athos and Porthos were making loud investigatory noises in the office, Aramis had slipped out and tailed Milady from her hotel suite to the airport and then, when she had come back through the gate, to the car rental where she had paid for a subtle, dark-colored sedan.

They also made a show of discovering Milady’s hotel rooms and sweeping them for any sign of her. She was long gone, of course, but they wouldn’t put it past her to leave an undetectable bug in her rooms to watch them flounder.

Athos found the note with her mark on it in. She had drawn her flower, the one she had used to doodle at the end of her love letters to him.

Their courtship had been short -- not even a year -- but Athos had been overwhelmed by the attention she’d showered on him. Until then, he had long craved affection from his stiff, aristocratic father and his distant mother. Thomas had been a flighty and argumentative companion, unable to give Athos attention without demanding more in return. Athos, a naturally quiet person, hadn’t had his brother’s inherently charismatic ability to inspire affection in lovers. His shy attempts to fulfill the outgoing, overly masculine role of suitor had fallen short.

Anne had swept in and overturned all of that. Athos had fallen for her in a day, starved for love and soaking up her offered affection. They had been inseparable within a week. On the occasions that she had to leave on her business trips, she had left notes for him in his coat pocket; on the pillow where she’d lain; in his latest book. They had all been signed with her favorite flower, the ones she picked at the edges of his estate where the gardeners didn’t quite get all the bunches of wildflowers. The forget-me-not.

He waited until they were outside the hotel before he spoke. “The estate,” he said heavily.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. “That’s where she…?”

“Intends to finished this, yes.” The note was proof enough, even if he hadn’t known that the other set of stolen currency dies were also in the safe at the estate. The flower was her reminder of the days when she had held him in her gasp, and the promise of his return to her.

This note in her hotel room had been meant for him; for only him. As far as Milady was concerned, Aramis and Porthos weren’t even players in the game. Constance was a non-entity, if she had even crossed Milady’s mind at all.

That would be her downfall. Athos was nothing without his friends. He could never have come this far without him. Hell -- he probably wouldn’t be here at all. God knew he would never have survived this long without people to curb his self-destructive tendencies.

It was ironic, then, that he had to finish this on his own. Whose idea had it been to cut Athos off from those he loved, anyway?

Aramis and Porthos left him alone in the agency office. Porthos pulled him into a hug before he left, and he clung to Porthos like a child. He was touch-starved and love-starved again, as he had been when Anne had just found him when he was barely out of his teens. He missed d’Artagnan’s touch, his presence. He missed having someone to rely on.

At this point, he might even welcome Milady’s embrace.

He ran his fingers over d’Artagnan’s message. Once this was over, then there would be all the time in the world for d’Artagnan. For now, he ripped the note into shreds and dropped it into the wastebasket. He couldn’t take the chance that Milady might see the note and understand the truth of Athos’ heart.

He repeated d’Artagnan’s words in his head like a mantra: _“We may be apart, but I’ll still be with you, Athos. No matter what happens.”_

He thought the words over and again, even as he pulled out his burner phone and texted Ninon. He had to let Milady know that she had to intercept him before he got to Ninon’s party. _I’ll still be with you, Athos_. He had to alert her to his crumbling emotional state. _No matter what happens._ He had to set himself up as the perfect victim.

Maybe it was the mantra that made him blurt out his secret to Ninon: “I was going to ask him to move in with me.”

He made an involuntary fist, as if he could stop the words from traveling down the phone line and into Milady’s ear. He hadn’t meant to say that at all. It had been on his mind for months. The thought of coming home to d’Artagnan, that was his quiet daydream to pull out in private moments and ponder. It was the truth; and it was too real to be given so freely.

He was slipping. He had meant for this to be a facade for Milady’s sake. But his alter ego was flaking off and revealing the hurt, broken man he had always been. He was afraid that he was becoming hers again.

*

D’Artagnan had expected a few more days of terrorizing innocent shoppers and stashing drugs before Rochefort made him into a patsy. But the fortunes smiled on d’Artagnan: Rochefort had a deadline. He let Rochefort knock the bag of coke out of his pocket with something like relief flooding his veins.

If the universe was fair, then Captain Treville and Constance would receive medals for their acting. D’Artagnan assumed that they had seen the video from d’Artagnan’s camera, but the captain gave no sign that he had seen his own detective assaulting civilians, or that d’Artagnan had been anything other than a willing witness to Rochefort’s crime.

As was becoming too common in this undercover act, d’Artagnan found the lines between his fake reactions and his honest emotions blurring. He barely needed to reach to find the humiliation at failing Captain Treville, who had shown him nothing but strict kindness ever since he had called d’Artagnan and introduced himself as Alexandre d’Artagnan’s old friend. The anger came easily to him as well, as it had for the past few weeks. Treville’s impassive stare and the disappointment in his frown stoked the fire; d’Artagnan was shouting before he knew it.

“I’ll give you a choice,” Captain Treville shouted back. “Either you cool your heels in our holding cells, or I tell Internal Affairs to have a good, long look at your file.”

Rochefort held himself very still beside d’Artagnan. His plan was unfolding perfectly, or so he thought: d’Artagnan’s integrity was cast into doubt; and by the captain, no less.

“Fine. Cells,” said d’Artagnan. His rush of temper, finally unleashed after lying coiled in the pit of his stomach for the better part of the week, had left him trembling. He slumped into Constance’s guiding hands, taking comfort in the last friendly touch before he was sent off with Rochefort. To end it for once and for all. Alone.

*

Athos was hyper-aware of the cold space between himself and his ex-wife. There was no one in this apartment but them. The wire on his chest, tucked securely under a dinner party vest, would offer no protection if Milady shot him. Or worse, if she tried to kiss him.

Her red lips were pursed as she looked him up and down. She reached out and slid a hand up and down his arm. She was already claiming him. It took all his willpower not to shudder and jerk away.

He had to withstand this.

 _No matter what happens_ , d’Artagnan whispered.

Milady spoke, and it was Anne in front of him, returned home from one of her mysterious business trips and ready to capture all his attention and time and energy.

“Did you miss me, Athos?” she asked.

“I haven’t missed you,” he lied, in the very room where he had told d’Artagnan the truth that pierced his heart: that he wished he could see Anne one more time. Just to ask her why.

Now Anne was in front of him again -- but she was also Milady, each woman wrapped in the other, and Athos still couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He had thought it would be different. He had thought that she would look different than the woman he’d known as his wife. He had thought, perhaps, that she would be bearing claws and an evil smirk; or that she would have donned a black catsuit and a bristling gun belt.

But she wore a sleek red dress that would have suited Ninon’s party, and her hair was done in curls as he remembered her setting on Sunday evenings. The concerned, mocking tone was the one he remembered from their arguments. He could have gone to sleep six years ago and woken up today and not noticed a difference.

She was the same as ever. She still pressed her nails into his skin until he nearly bled. She still touched him like she owned him.

And her words could still cut him to the bone.

“I loved you once, Athos,” she said. “With all my heart and soul. But you just weren’t enough.”

She reached out for him again, her lily-white hand toying with his collar. He took a step back before he even realized what he was doing. 

Her eyes narrowed. He panicked for a split second. He was supposed to be falling for her. Why had he moved away?

“You were too selfish,” she said. “I asked you so many times to listen to me, but you always chose whatever you wanted. You’re so selfish, Athos. Your friends know it. They can’t stand to be near you. And your little loverboy? He got out before you could poison him, too.” 

He watched her familiar mouth twist his friendships into familiar guilt. This, too, was the same. Then why did it sit so poorly with him?

He had moved away from her because she was lying.

He was selfish. He needed people to lean on. He needed quiet Saturday mornings and idle trips to flea markets and movie marathons and bowling. He needed a drink when his three-month sober chip burned a hole in his pocket. He needed d’Artagnan in his arms. He needed a complicated, dangerous undercover operation just to find closure.

Athos had little confidence in himself, but he had never been unsure about his friends.

The ghost of Porthos’ tight embrace before he had left the agency warmed Athos’ shoulders. He felt Aramis’ quiet presence over his shoulder with a patient finger on the trigger of his shotgun, as he always did during risky ops. Treville and Constance were listening to his every word, waiting for a sign.

And d’Artagnan’s heart throbbed in Athos’ chest, spitting and cursing and fighting with every breath he took.

Anne had neatly cut Athos off from his friends when they were married. Weeknights at home, weekends spent at boating shows and garden parties. He had thought that his life was cold and empty after she was gone. Meanwhile Aramis and Porthos had rallied around him, and Treville had stood by him, and Constance had shown up to every weekend excursion despite her complaints about paperwork and how the three of them made her job that much harder. And then Flea had followed, and Ninon, and through her, Agnes. All his friendships could be traced back to that year when Anne had left his life.

Athos had refused Milady’s touch because her version of his friends was laughable. It didn’t matter what she said about _him_ ; she was probably right about that. But to tell him that his friends had abandoned him was futile. He owed it to them to prove her wrong. 

He remembered the codeword, and the friends and allies waiting on his signal. He had to remind himself that he was meant to play into her hands. He had to see this through, for the sake of those he loved, if not for himself.

‘Diamond’ to stay. ‘Adventure’ for extraction.

He leaned into Milady’s gun. “I’ll give you anything,” he said. “ _Diamonds_. Gold. Anything.”

“I only want the dies,” Milady said. She had always been so single-minded. “Where are they?”

Athos closed his eyes. He had done his part. He had to trust in the others to do theirs.

“The estate,” he said.

*

“Sir! We have confirmation,” said Zénaide, one hand pressed to her ear. “They’re going to the estate.”

“Excellent,” said Captain Treville tightly. “Agent Owusu?”

The Interpol Agent had her own radio up to her mouth. “Roger that, captain. Teams en route?” An affirmative crackle came from the radio.

Treville switched radio lines. “Aramis. Report.”

“Gasoline in the trunk of Rochefort’s car,” Aramis said breathlessly. “I think we can guess the method of --” He faltered slightly, then pushed through. “Of attempted homicide.”

Treville wasted no breath on curses. “Call the local unit of the fire brigade,” he ordered. “I want no lights, no sirens. Parked two hundred meters from the entrance of the de la Fere estate on the opposite side of the highway exit route.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me the name and number of the fire chief.”

“Already have it. I’ll forward it to you.”

“Good. Rochefort and d’Artagnan, where are they now?”

“Inside the bar.”

“Do you have a view on them?”

“Only a glimpse. D’Artagnan seems to be, er, convincing Rochefort of his loyalties.”

“He’s drunk,” Treville said flatly.

“Only in appearance, sir. I think.”

Treville blew out a breath. “Don’t let them leave your eyesight. Got it?”

“Not for a second,” Aramis promised.

* * * * *

**Present**

Smoke had completely filled the room now, in a fine dusty swirl. Athos tried to keep his breathing slow and shallow.

Athos could make out some of the voices outside the window now. Treville’s bellows rose above the general clamor of shouts and sirens and fire crackling.

He thought he heard Aramis too: “D’Artagnan! Come back here, you -- Let me go!” A string of curses. Athos could guess, though they were muffled, that they were mostly in Spanish. D’Artagnan’s name again.

Porthos said something too, but his deep voice was a smooth roll of sound, words indistinguishable.

He hoped that Porthos was holding d’Artagnan back from the house. He hoped that d’Artagnan was safe and unhurt.

He hoped that the fire brigade would break down the door soon.

Athos laughed, and it came out as a sob. He had thought up such a grand plan. He had been so sure in his ability to lure Milady in. And they had found her, yes; and they had tracked her and her accomplice; but Milady had struck to the heart of him.

His attempts to distance himself from d’Artagnan had been for naught. He had emptied himself of the things that had kept him from falling. He had tricked himself into falling into Milady’s arms again. He had let her overhear his confessions -- _“I was planning on asking him to move in with me”_ \-- and let her use them against him. What a fool he’d been. Overambitious and blind.

And now, on the precipice, he saw too late that he wanted to fight for all that he’d pushed away. Chained to a wall and choking on smoke, he wished more fiercely than he ever had in his life that he could be free; that he could chase after what he wanted; that he could find d’Artagnan in the dark and cling to him and never let go.

And then, like the sun rising -- inevitable and bloody astonishingly beautiful -- d’Artagnan found him.

Athos heard the choked shout and stilled, wondering if he’d imagined it. But a moment later d’Artagnan stumbled through the door. He was disheveled, his shirt hanging open and his face streaked with smoke and tears, and he held a small silver key in his hand.

“Athos!” he shouted into the room. Then he found Athos in the smoky gloom. “Ath-- Athos!”

He rushed across the room and tripped into Athos, their bodies colliding with a force that sent Athos back against the wall again. He didn’t care. It was enough to touch d’Artagnan. They could have been careening over a waterfall and he’d still wrap his free arm around d’Artagnan, feeling the solid weight of him against Athos’ chest, the heat of his skin burning through Athos’ sleeve. D’Artagnan seemed to be the only real thing in the haze of the room.

He was here. He was _here_.

D’Artagnan’s mouth moved against Athos’ neck in soundless reassurance. Athos felt d’Artagnan’s heaving breath against his skin, warm and wet.

“Are you okay?” d’Artagnan demanded. He fumbled with the key and dropped it twice before he managed to fit it to the handcuffs.

There was no way Athos could answer that succinctly. “Just get me out,” he gasped.

He had been practically reborn on this piece of wall. He had given himself up for dead. He had wished for another chance and lo, d’Artagnan had appeared. Now he was uncuffed, shaking out the pins and needles, and escaping the room through the yawning mouth of the doorway.

It would have been a greater accomplishment if they didn’t still have to find their way out of the house. Athos knew his estate by heart, but the smoke and the darkness and the damn, pounding ache in his head made him slow. The endless rooms had never seemed more like a maze.

D’Artagnan held onto Athos’ undamaged wrist and pulled him through the dark. Athos barely recognized an armoire, and nudged d’Artagnan when he would have led them down a passage that led to the kitchen. Athos would have been gratified by their silent communication if there had been any room inside his head for more than one concrete thought.

As it was, he could only hold one, and it was this: _Let me get out, let us get out, let me out. Let us_ out.

The dark rooms swirled with restless smoke. D’Artagnan kept trying to bat the waves of smoke out of his way, but he needed the hand to keep from falling over furniture and around corners. He had started to cough in short, subdued bursts.

Athos’ eyes lost what little moisture they’d had left. He felt a blockage in his throat. He tried to clear it away and found himself coughing globs of mucus up out of his lungs. He sucked in mouthfuls of dirty air and choked on that too.

He was very tired.

He could feel the fire now. The heat pressed at him from all sides. He felt his scalp scorching and guessed that the fire had reached the roof. It was probably climbing in through the windows and eating the draperies and lush carpets and the wooden, four-poster beds. The flames would move onto the stairs next, skittering down the oak banisters like giddy children.

He could see it like a waking dream: the fire crawling from one surface to the next, devouring his ancestral home with no mind for relationships or history or revenge. A vague sort of satisfied relief, that he had put his father’s gun collection into storage when he had moved out of the house, crawled through Athos' brain.

D’Artagnan pulled Athos ever on. Athos tripped after him, following d’Artagnan into the impenetrable unknown.

A figure loomed out of the dark, reaching for them. D’Artagnan stopped short. Athos, uncoordinated with confusion, bumped up against him.

The figure reached for them. D’Artagnan’s grip on Athos tightened to a painful degree before he let go and shoved Athos at the figure. He said something, but Athos couldn’t hear. He couldn’t focus.

Athos felt a plastic coat under his hands, and he knocked against a face mask. The bug-eyed monster was only just resolving into a firefighter as Athos found himself being lifted and pushed out through the front door.

Startled, he sucked in a breath of clear, cold night air. He promptly began coughing.

There was shouting, and hands on him. He stumbled down the front steps, pushing the hands away, until he found the grass under his feet and he knew that he was away from the house.

He staggered a few more steps. D’Artagnan. Where was --

Hands pulled at him again. Athos struck at them savagely, elbowing a mass at his back for good measure.

D’Artagnan?

He turned to the house to see, and his knees gave out. He fell onto the cold, damp earth.

He stayed there, gasping and unfocused, staring dazedly at the flames eating away at his estate. Was d’Artagnan…?

His vision was blocked by d’Artagnan himself. He dropped roughly to his knees in front of Athos and clasped Athos’ face in his hands.

“Athos,” he breathed. He tightened his lips around a cough that shook his shoulders. His hair was matted to his head, his eyes were red, his nostrils black with soot, and his face was lined with worry. He was more beautiful than anything Athos had ever seen.

He was perfect; he was _alive_. He had rescued Athos from the burning house; he had chased down Rochefort and faced Milady. For Athos.

Athos had to touch him. He curved a shaky hand around the closest part of d’Artagnan, an arm that trembled with exhaustion and stress.

“D’Artagnan,” he managed.

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan. “Yes, it’s over. It’s over. We got her. It’s over.” He held Athos’ face and he looked shattered.

At d’Artagnan’s words, Athos felt as though the strings holding him up had been cut. He slumped into d’Artagnan’s touch. His anxious, swirling thoughts settled like ash, coating his mind with a veil of blank, blessed thoughtlessness.

“It’s over,” Athos rasped.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan whispered.

Something bubbled up in Athos’ chest. He let it come and was only half-surprised to find that it was an elated laugh.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan sounded wary. “Are you okay?”

Athos' mouth split in a grin. He tasted soot on his teeth. He couldn’t stop laughing, helplessly, into the crook of d’Artagnan’s neck.

“It’s over,” he said.

D’Artagnan awkwardly wrapped an arm around Athos. “Yeah.” His chest rose and fell with his stuttering, choked breaths, and he was alive, and he was here, and this was it: Athos could have his second chance if he tried hard enough.

They only got another moment before they were interrupted by a pair of paramedics. Arms hoisted Athos up, and then d’Artagnan. They were both deposited on the open back end of an ambulance. They checked Athos’ airways and lifted his eyelids with sure, impersonal hands. D’Artagnan’s fumbled for his while they were both over for anything more than scrapes. Athos squeezed the hand as his wrist was tended to. He was too tired not to flinch as the bandage irritated the puffy skin.

He tried to reject the oxygen mask, and the paramedic working on him slapped his hand away. She gave him a glare and strict instructions not to touch the mask until she had come back.

She slipped away around the side of the ambulance. As if on cue -- they had probably been lurking on the other side of the open ambulance doors until the white-coats had gone -- Aramis and Porthos materialized in front of Athos.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” said Aramis in bright surprise. “When we left you earlier tonight, I never would have _dreamed_ we’d run into each other again. And me not wearing my tux.” Despite his lighthearted words, he gently clapped Athos on the nape of his neck and squeezed. “‘M glad it worked out, brother. Shame about the house, though.”

Athos took a careful breath through the mask, then removed it and said, “I never really liked the place anyway.” He replaced the mask.

“Too big,” Aramis agreed readily. “Now all you have to do is knock down a few walls, tidy up the foundation, put up a few curtains and you’ll have a cozy cottage.”

Athos shook his head.

“Planning on rebuilding it, then?”

Athos shook his head again. When he saw Aramis open his mouth, he knew he’d keep drawing it out until Athos said it.

He took another slow breath and lifted the mask to say, “Going to sell the lot.”

Aramis rocked back on his heels. “Oh, well. That’s alright then.”

D’Artagnan snorted. This created an unintentional, rather disgusting effect on the interior of his oxygen mask. He removed the mask and scrubbed at the inside.

“Don’t go drowning yourself in snot yet,” said Aramis. “We haven’t forgiven you for nearly getting yourself shot before you called in the reinforcements.”

“I had it figured out,” d’Artagnan protested. He tried to stifle a cough; his cheeks bulged, making him look like a soot-stained, aggrieved chipmunk.

Aramis replaced the mask on d’Artagnan’s face. “I’m sure you did.” D’Artagnan’s indignant reply was lost behind the plastic.

Porthos moved in to lay a large hand on Athos’ shoulder. “You holding up?” Athos nodded. “I was worried about you for a while,” Porthos continued.

Athos nodded again. He would have been worried too, had it been Porthos in the place of Milady-bait. Or any one of his friends.

His friends. The thought uncurled a warm sensation in his stomach. His friends, who had backed him up even when they couldn’t be physically by his side. His friends, who had carried him through the confrontation in his apartment.

Porthos’ hand still rested on Athos’ shoulder. His thumb brushed absent-mindedly over Athos’ collarbone. Aramis was leaning over d’Artagnan, his hand on d’Artagnan’s knee, and was distracting d’Artagnan by snapping the elastic band that held his mask on. D’Artagnan’s hand still held Athos’ own.

They were the reason he had fought.

“Y’know, for a crack team with no plan, no inter-comms, and no boyfriends,” said Porthos, automatically putting out a hand in front of Aramis’ face to make him stop torturing d’Artagnan, “we did pretty well.”

Aramis left d’Artagnan alone and leaned into Porthos’ side. “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?” he said with relish.

* * * * *

Finally, _finally_ , this whole week was all paying off. God, it felt good to be able to rip someone a new one again.

If that someone was the detective who had single-handedly lowered Treville’s chances for a commendation on his precinct’s quality of work, well, all the better. He’d had enough of this sneaking around. He was fed up with pacifying politicians and pretending to believe his own detective who thought that Treville couldn’t tell a dirty cop from his own arse.

Rochefort glowered at him as best he could from the back of a squad car with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“And let me tell you,” Treville snarled, “I was bloody lying when I told d’Artagnan that I’d give him a pass because he’s one of mine. You’re mine, Rochefort, my collar. I’m going to prosecute you with everything I’ve got. And our resident lawyer is very, very good.”

Rochefort stared at Treville, impassive but for the nerve in his jaw that pulsed angrily.

Treville braced a hand on the car roof and leaned in. “I won’t tell you that you’re a disgrace to the badge, because I doubt you’d care. You’re just a disgrace, Rochefort. You don’t deserve the attention your case will get.” He sneered, forcefully. “Maybe you’ll get a press deal out of it. Write a book. But I doubt it’ll sell. No one will care about a washed-up cockroach two years down the road. No one but your cellmate, anyway.”

He could have gone on, just to see the vein in Rochefort’s jaw jump higher, but Bonacieux cleared her throat behind him. He straightened regretfully and turned to his head detective. He did notice, gratified, that Bonacieux sent Rochefort her dirtiest glare before Treville shut the car door.

Treville nodded, and Bonacieux snapped to attention. “The fire brigade has the flames under control, sir. They say they should eliminate all flames within ten minutes.”

Treville glanced at the house. The flames had lessened, though Treville didn’t see how it would all be subdued in ten minutes. He let it go; this brigade knew what it was doing.

“Remind me to get the personal number of the fire chief,” he said. “Mazarin. Good idea, he had -- opening and unfreezing the water lines before we got here.” He ran a finger over his lower lip idly. “I thought Rochefort might notice the soggy lawn, but it worked out.”

“I think he was a little preoccupied with his plans for homicide, boss.”

The casual title was a warning sign. Treville glanced at Bonacieux and saw the impish twinkle in her eye. He dropped his hand from his mouth quickly. “I don’t want Mazarin’s number for -- not like that. I should recommend him to the mayor. We need more good minds in Paris.” He nodded, and harrumphed.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“I don’t need your cheek,” he muttered. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your trick with the phones.”

“That was part of the plan. I was only doing my _job_ , sir.”

“Are you thinking of a career change, Bonacieux? Methinks you enjoyed playing the mayor a bit too much.”

“I heard the Musketeers Agency has an all-leather dress code. Maybe I’ll apply there.”

Speaking of…

Treville found the private investigators of the agency, plus one, gathered around the back of the ambulance that someone had called in the chaotic minute after d’Artagnan had run into the burning house.

Treville shook his head as he approached the group sitting in the halo of the light of the ambulance. He’d be having words with his intern about that particular stunt. What with all of d’Artagnan’s other stunts, Treville would no doubt be sharing quite a few words. A dissertation, perhaps.

He stopped short of the huddled group. They broke apart and turned to him. He nodded to Athos and d’Artagnan, and ran his eyes over each of them. No visible injuries besides Athos’ bandaged wrist and the bruise blossoming over his cheekbone. Poor sod -- two face wounds within a few months. At least this one wasn't dick-shaped, Treville thought with some humor. 

Who would have guessed Milady’s plan to handcuff Athos to the wall of his own house, with d’Artagnan’s cuffs? Treville's mood soured again. Good thing d’Artagnan had caught the absence of his handcuffs and alerted Treville via his wire.

Treville nodded to all four of them. “Good job, all. We’re ready to move the perps back to the precinct.”

“Wait,” said Athos hoarsely. “Can I… I’d like to…”

Treville understood without further explanation.

"We can wait to drive back to the station. My crew can start cleanup. She’s in the second car. No funny business.”

“We know the cost of jeopardizing this case,” Aramis said sharply. He subsided at Treville’s look.

Athos stood shakily. His hand was tight around d’Artagnan’s, and Treville saw Athos give it one last squeeze before dropping it. “I’ll be right back,” Athos said to d’Artagnan.

He made his way -- steadily, if a little slowly -- across the lawn to where Milady sat in the back of a squad car.

D’Artagnan started to rise. Immediately, a paramedic popped her head around the side of the ambulance.

“Hey!” she said. ”What did I say about the masks?”

“But he left!” d’Artagnan said, throwing Athos under the bus immediately.

The paramedic squinted after Athos. “Crap. How’d he get over there?” She shook her head. “I’ll deal with him in a sec. You, get that mask back on.” 

She held the oxygen mask to d’Artagnan’s face and bade him take slow breaths while she listened to his lungs. D’Artagnan was sufficiently distracted that Treville felt comfortable turning to Aramis and Porthos and lowering his voice.

“I understand your agency will probably be on holiday for a while.”

“Those two, yeah,” said Porthos, jerking his head toward d’Artagnan, who was withstanding a blood pressure test with ill grace. “They’ll likely bury themselves in Athos’ apartment and not come out for days. We’ll probably be back in, though, if you’re looking for us.”

“Well,” hedged Aramis, “I wouldn’t say no to a week-long rest either.”

“Whenever you do come back,” Treville said, “We’ll have our hands fully with all of Rochefort’s cases. I want to get a head start on re-opening them before his arrest even gets to the courts.”

“We’d be glad to offer our services,” Aramis said. “For a fee, of course.”

Treville waved a hand. “Of course. We’ll need all the help we can get. I’ll be glad to have you back on board while the department and the media recover from our falling out. But I have one condition. Non-negotiable. You leave d’Artagnan alone until he’s got officer rank.”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance.

“I hardly think you’re the friend police,” Aramis began.

“Not you. The agency. You let d’Artagnan earn his officer stripes before you offer him a job with you. He’s a good man, and a good detective. I don’t want him haring off and getting hurt before I’ve taught him a few more tricks. Got it?” Treville set his jaw and stared them down.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged another glance, this one a little guiltier than the one before.

“Right now it’s just a thought,” said Porthos.

“Hold the thought for another year at least,” Treville ordered. “He doesn’t need preferential treatment from the precinct’s current number-one grudge, on top of everything else he’s been through.”

Porthos held up a hand. “We swear,” he said.

Aramis solemnly held up three fingers in a pledge. “On our honor.”

“Oh, sure,” said Treville. “That puts me right at ease.”

* * * * *

Athos concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow. He could wait until his cough was gone and Milady was behind bars; it would be more dignified that way. But he was done with calculating his every move for her, and he was tired of games. He wanted to get this done with.

He rested his hand on the handle of the car door. Milady was turned away from him, staring out her window. She was looking at the burning house. He wondered if she was relishing in the destruction or mourning that it was incomplete.

She didn’t turn when he opened the door. She hadn’t been staring at the fire, he realized; she had been watching him in the reflection of the window. He slid onto the seat. She wrinkled her nose but she didn't look at him. He realized he must stink of smoke.

He took a moment to look her over. She still looked like Anne: the curls, the dress, the lipstick. But she was Milady to him now, irrevocably.

He remembered something he had told d’Artagnan once. Maybe it had been the first time he’d told d’Artagnan about Milady, when they were in Athos’ bed on one of their rare weekends and Athos could avoid d’Artagnan’s eyes in person.

 _“I saw his murderer too,”_ he'd said, or thought, or maybe it was a memory of writing. _“Looking small and pale in our interrogation room. I understand how one person can hold both hate and pity in their hearts for their enemy. But Thomas never received justice. With all my heart, I am glad that you have yours.”_

Yes; they’d been writing to each other when d’Artagnan was at the academy. About LaBarge and justice.

Milady didn’t look small. She was a life-sized martyr in the back seat, proud and pale. But she wasn’t a giant. She wasn’t his nightmare anymore.

Milady spoke first.

“You never visited me during my trial,” she said. “Will you visit me during this one? Will you come and gloat?”

Athos was silent for a moment. He breathed and organized his words carefully. He didn’t want to waste precious inhales on her.

But -- her owed her just this much.

“By the time the trial started, Interpol had come to me and explained who you were.” Breath. “They told me Thomas had been fired for misuse of resources.” He left out his frantic, increasingly drunken hunt for Thomas’ restricted files from university. Milady wouldn’t care. “The coroner said--” Careful, such a careful breath. “He found your DNA under Thomas’ nails. Skin from his neck under yours. Defensive wounds. Usually found in violent attacks.”

Milady was very still. She was still looking out the window -- or at his reflection? He couldn’t tell. She was still a mystery to him.

He was swamped by a wave of sudden sadness, that she had never been as open to him as he had been to her. He hated it. His eyes prickled.

“I couldn’t bring myself to accuse you of murder, not after what I knew of Thomas’ wounds. I was a coward. I let Interpol carry the trial. Perhaps if I had…” he trailed off.

Breath. They were coming easier now.

“I apologize,” he said formally, “for any wrong Thomas did to you. I’m sorry.” Athos had been a terrible older brother all along.

_“You’re not actually my parent, Athos. You remember that, right?”_

“As for the rest…” The murdering, the lies, the hurt. “I didn’t read the file.”

Milady looked at him jerkily. “What?”

“Thomas brought me a file. Tried to convince me to leave you. I didn’t read it until after,” he swallowed, remembering the bright red haze of that night. “Until after you were arrested.”

He fell silent. Milady stared at him. He could see the calculations behind her eyes. If she had called for Athos’ help, if she had told him about Thomas without mentioning her history of killing for Sarazin, she might have gotten away with it.

They might still be married; she might still be standoffish and secretive; he might still be under her thumb, friendless, and alone.

Her lips twisted. That was petty enough revenge for him. He levered himself up. He heard her cut-off breath, almost a sob, as he exited the car. He shut the door and didn’t look back.

Porthos met him halfway across the lawn. “You’ve officially been released,” he said, jerking his thumb at the ambulance. The paramedics were packing up. “You and d’Artagnan can go home. I guess we’ll see you in a week?”

“Not that long,” Athos protested automatically. Then he reconsidered. “Make it six days.”

Porthos grinned. “Fine. C’mon, I’ll give you both a lift. You look dead on your feet. Better go collect your wayward other half.”

Athos followed his gaze and saw d’Artagnan talking to a fellow intern, the one with the Haitian accent. Dusson, that was it.

Dusson was scolding d’Artagnan; he heard her say as he approached, “Really? You decided to call in backup with a _Peter Pan_ quote?”

D’Artagnan winced. “It was the only thing I could think of--”

“You’re just lucky I was quick on the uptake.”

“I couldn’t have asked for better backup,” d’Artagnan said earnestly.

“You _could_ have asked,” Dusson muttered.

“I couldn’t tell anyone about the op, I only found out the night before I--”

“I know, I know. I’m just being cross.” Dusson waved off d’Artagnan’s excuse. She looked up and saw Athos. She tensed, and he stopped in his tracks.

Dusson looked back at d’Artagnan. “Don’t tell me you guys never actually broke up?”

“Well…”

Dusson rolled her eyes extravagantly. “You owe me a full explanation.”

“I know.”

“And an apology.”

“I really know. I’m sorry, Zénaide.”

Dusson harrumphed.

“I beg your pardon,” said Athos, manners coming to the forefront in his exhaustion, “but might I borrow d’Artagnan for a while?”

“More than a while,” d’Artagnan said. He looped his arm around Athos’ elbow. “I need to sleep for a week.”

“Not the whole week, I hope,” Athos muttered. He wanted to do a bit more than sleep with their time off. He had d’Artagnan to rediscover. They had secrets to share and bodies to re-map. They had a shower and a bed to fall into.

He turned away, leaning on d’Artagnan.

* * * * *

Before the shower, before the bed, there were the listening devices. D’Artagnan stood by the kitchen island, nearly asleep on his feet, while Aramis ran one last check under the couch.

“I think there were only two,” Aramis said. He crawled over to the TV stand and swept his sensor under that as well. “Audio in the kitchen, video in here. None in the bedroom, thank god.” He turned to Athos. “By the way, why do you keep lube in that strange little basket?”

“‘S Sentimental,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“I’d love to ask you more while you’re so amenable, but I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Aramis said, eyeing Athos. With his wild hair and wilder eyes, Athos looked ready to kick Aramis out himself. “Toodle-oo and all, see you in a week, enjoy your basket.”

He snagged Porthos and was out of the apartment in half a minute.

Athos looked at d’Artagnan wearily. “Shower,” he said. “You first. You’re not getting that soot on my sheets.”

As he had guessed, the shower revived d’Artagnan marginally. He perched on Athos’ bed with a towel slung around his hips, and groped half-heartedly at Athos’ bare thigh as Athos padded into the bathroom to take his turn.

He would have to look into a shower large enough for two people when he started searching for a new apartment, Athos thought idly. Then he froze, shampoo dripping into his eyes. That precious daydream had crept into his head again. D’Artagnan moving in with him, finding a new place to call their own…

But all of that relied on what d’Artagnan would say when Athos showed him his failure.

D’Artagnan was on the phone when Athos emerged from the shower. "I know, I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He winced. "No, there was a good reason. I can't really tell you. I swear!"

He tilted his head up; Athos presented his cheek, and d’Artagnan brushed a kiss over it. He jerked back and put a hand to his lips. _Shave_ , he mouthed at Athos.

“No, I’ll be free for the family call. Goddammit, you can’t guilt trip me with Lorraine. Go have your own child to manipulate.” His mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “You too. Love you. Bye.”

D’Artagnan sighed and hung up. "I owe Lisabeth a week of worry, apparently. She was ready to send Marion to Paris to find me."

He patted the bed. “Come on. I need you here. Why are you getting dressed again?”

Athos needed his armor on for this. He couldn’t be naked when -- if -- d’Artagnan rejected him for real. “There’s one more thing.” 

Athos took d’Artagnan’s hand and drew him over to the living room, to the chest that held the wine. He lay on his stomach and reached under the armoire for the key while d’Artagnan looked on silently. He unlocked the chest. He piled the blankets onto the floor. 

He drew back and let d’Artagnan see the perfect rows of wine.

“I used it when Milady was watching,” he explained. He kept his eyes focused on the glinting glass bottles. “But it’s been here since long before I knew you. And. I didn’t drink the wine. But I drank whiskey at a pub when I was pretending to get drunk. I could have stopped and I didn’t.”

He wasn’t strong enough to look d’Artagnan in the eye and say something like, “Fuck you if you can’t accept all of me.” But he could be strong enough to reveal this shameful part of himself and wait to see if d’Artagnan would accept him. He could take this chance.

 _“What do you deserve, Athos?”_ His therapist, in the first session he’d scheduled after meeting d’Artagnan.

 _“I deserve to change,”_ he had said. _“I deserve to be better.”_ But that had been bullocks, and Jessica had known it. He’d wanted d’Artagnan desperately and he’d known -- or had thought -- that if he made an effort, he might be a semblance of the person that d’Artagnan had deserved.

And then it had changed: _I deserve him._ That had stayed. Who wouldn’t want to deserve d’Artagnan? Who wouldn’t work to change themselves so they could be worthy of him?

Maybe it was the near-death experience that had tilted his perspective. This was his second chance. He wouldn’t dare use it on anyone but himself.

I _deserve to get better._

In time, he might become the kind of person whose mere friendship would save a person from despair at the lowest moment of their life. If he could repay that gift, then he would have used his second chance well.

Athos was going to get better for himself. If d’Artagnan stayed, he had to know that d’Artagnan accepted all of him, even the parts that wouldn't be better any time soon.

D’Artagnan stared at the bottles. “What do you want to do with them?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to keep them?”

Athos’ heart skipped. “No!”

“I mean it. Do you want to drink them all?”

His gut curdled. “No.”

“Or even some of them? We could start on one--”

“D’Artagnan, what are you doing?”

“I don’t care about the bottles or the whiskey. I love you, Athos. I’d love you if you fell into the bottle tonight. I’d love you if you relapsed on our ten-year anniversary.” D’Artagnan’s breath caught, as if he hadn’t meant to say that, but he barreled on. “You can keep them, Athos. I’m not penalizing you because you have a stash. It’s not a points system.”

“Don’t you get it? I need these gone.”

D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m a terrible person when I drink. It’s true. You’ve never seen me that way -- I don’t want you to. I’m moody, I can’t stop thinking about my mistakes; Porthos and Aramis need to pull me out of my apartment -- physically, once -- and I forget about everything that’s worth staying sober for.” He didn’t want to forget d’Artagnan; he didn’t want to miss one smile or touch or conversation because he was too self-involved to forgive his past mistakes.

“I don’t want you to see that part of me,” he repeated. “That’s over with.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Okay.” He tangled Athos’ fingers in his. “Do you want to drink?”

“Yes,” Athos said without hesitation. “More than you can know. But I won’t.”

“Do you want to get these out of here now?”

Athos hesitated. The wine was a lure; but it was the low-level, constant call that he resisted every day. The urge to collapse into bed and never leave it was stronger.

“We can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

* * * * *

**18 hours later**

D’Artagnan sighed and pressed another open-mouthed kiss to Athos’ shoulder. “I mean, you could’ve died,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean, really _died_.”

Athos rolled over so d’Artagnan was in his arms. “I know.”

“I just -- running into the fire, all I could think was, ‘I don’t have the money for another tattoo’. How terrible is that?”

Athos let the words sink in. His hand crept up d’Artagnan’s flank and covered the horseshoe tattoo on d’Artagnan’s ribs. D’Artagnan had crushed Athos’ hand when he’d gotten that. He’d been reciting the passage from the book too, in an effort to distract himself from memories of his father dying in his arms.

“I didn’t realize. How much it would, uh,” he cleared his throat. “Affect you.”

“If you died? Yeah, I think that would affect me.”

“I mean -- the visceral reaction.” He imagined d’Artagnan finding Athos in the fire. He quickly stopped imagining that.

D’Artagnan shifted a collarbone in a minimalist shrug. “I started the fire anyway, it’s not on you. Or, not started it,” he amended quickly. Athos nodded. A good two hours had been spent piecing together a timeline of their separate operations. D’Artagnan had explained how Milady had been stopped from using her matches, only to pull out a lighter at the last moment.

“If I hadn’t waited so long, though, she wouldn’t have gotten so close to the fire. Or Constance would have arrested her before she got the lighter out.”

Athos wrapped d’Artagnan up more securely. “Once you start going through the what-ifs…”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I know. It what we’re taught in training. Don’t second-guess. But it feels different when I’m the one who waited until the perp lit the house on fire.” He nudged Athos a little with the hand trapped between them. “ _Your_ house.”

“As I said, I’ve been thinking of putting it on the market for a while.”

“Good luck getting a buyer now.”

“It’s good land. I’m sure someone will want it.”

“Mm. Build a bed-and-breakfast on it.”

“The horror,” Athos murmured.

“A theme park.”

“Ghastly.”

Athos shifted closer until he was lying nearly on top of d’Artagnan, who took it in good measure. He slid his thigh between Athos’ legs and wrapped his arms around Athos, trailing his fingernails idly over Athos’ spine. They had been nestled against each other since they had lain down, and remained that way through all fourteen straight hours of sleep. They didn’t want to let go of each other, not yet. The luxury of touch, with no pretense and no unfriendly cameras on them, hadn’t worn off.

D’Artagnan had probably set a record in the “quickest bed-to-door dash” category when their order of Thai food has arrived. He had tumbled back onto the bed, already reaching for Athos, and they had eaten with knees and elbows knocking. The remnants of that meal, and of the second delivery order, were on the floor at a perfect arm’s-length away from the bed.

D’Artagnan had taken the liberty of adding ten bottles of sports drinks to the order, which he’d stashed on his side of the bed.

“Now we won’t have to leave for anything,” he’d said, satisfied, when Athos had emerged from his rice and seen the pyramid of bottles. “Plus: electrolytes!”

“Except for the toilet,” Athos had said.

A shrug from d’Artagnan. “Empty bottles.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Now Athos took stock of his digestive system. Maybe another order of food in a few hours. Greek next? He left the decision for later. He had better things to do with his time.

He kissed d’Artagnan, slow and leisurely. D’Artagnan sighed into Athos’ mouth, as if kissing Athos was something new every time it happened. His fingers rolled up and down Athos’ back slowly, ponderously; exploring the ridges and dips and scars as if for the first time.

“I’ve been thinking,” Athos said some time later. “About the house.”

“Mm-hmm?” d’Artagnan said encouragingly. He watched Athos from under lazy, heavy lids.

“I never wanted to live in it. Especially not after…” Athos sighed to encapsulate the night Milady had killed Thomas and everything had changed. “I couldn’t sell it, though. It was my family’s home for generations.”

“Mm-hmm,” d’Artagnan said again. Athos guessed that he was thinking about his own family home: the farmhouse with its golden-lit windows in the midst of fields of waving wheat. A far cry from the stone sculpture of the de la Fere estate. Athos didn’t have to spend time thinking about which he’d prefer.

“I’m glad it happened this way,” he admitted. “The smoke inhalation I could have done without…” He smiled and traced his thumb down d’Artagnan’s cheek. “But I don’t have to decide what to do with it.”

“You didn’t have to let down your family by giving it up,” d’Artagnan murmured.

“It’s easier,” Athos agreed. “It’s an ending.”

A smile broke over d’Artagnan’s face, like the sunrise: bright, hopeful, and fucking hot.

Athos leaned in for a kiss, and then stopped with a hand over his mouth. He lifted himself up on an elbow.

“Oh, no, no,” he said. “I just tasted my breath, and I am not kissing you like this.”

“Come here, you.” D’Artagnan grabbed Athos’ chin and sealed their mouths together. “Mmm. Disgusting.”

Athos laughed for the second time in a day. He closed his eyes and let himself relax until their foreheads touched, until their breath mingled, until he could feel d’Artagnan’s eyelashes tickle him in lazy sweeps.

It would be some time before Athos could sort himself out. He would always be a work in progress. There would be setbacks, as was inevitable with the kind of life he led. But knowing that d’Artagnan would be there throughout it all gave him the strength to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: 
> 
> First of all, thank you so, so much to everyone who commented and kudos’d, and liked my progress on tumblr. Your encouragement means a lot to me! You are all precious snowflakes and I love you a lot. Thank you for sticking by me while I banged this out! 
> 
> Thank you especially to Nina, who not only beta’d some of my chapters and gave gentle guidance, but who is also the sweetest person in the world and is very good at calming down stressed authors. 
> 
> Thank you as well to fearlessstateofmind, who drew the art for this piece and was very patient with my last-minute changes. 
> 
> Shout-out to Sigmund, who has helped me with everything from Italian curses to accidental errors (terrible accents, anyone?). 
> 
> Now some writing things: 
> 
> \- Celine is the name of the young prostitute who was cut by Constance’s bottle in episode 10. I’ve always seen her as a deliberate reflection of Milady: in the same bad place in the same broken system, facing a similar disfiguration that lowers her worth in the eyes of the men who have used her. I wanted to give Celine, at least, the support system that Milady never had; so she ended up at Flea’s shelter for homeless queer youth after trying to stab Flea in an alley one day. It was the start of a beautiful relationship. 
> 
> \- I’m kind of sorry for the sudden genre switch. Of course, it’s really fun torturing characters, and it was especially fun to see that you guys were being tortured as well. That being said, the angst is over. This ‘verse is my happy place and I need my babies to be happy too! 
> 
> \- I have a LOT of ideas for different AUs swirling around in my head. I’d like to get started on some of them. So don’t expect to see this series updated for a while. Frankly, I’m exhausted! 
> 
> \- Again, thank you all for reading! This was a blast to do. If you’ve liked it, please let me know in the comments? It would give my poor bleeding fingers a sense of accomplishment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nina for betaing and cheerleading. A million thanks to everyone who shouted encouragement at me! 
> 
> Reviews are much appreciated, thank you and Richelieu bless you.


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